Fall From Grace
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: What if Autor ended up with the power he wanted? Would he control it ... or would it control him?
1. Nocturne

**Princess Tutu**

**Fall From Grace**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is. This was written for the prompt **_**Nocturne (What do you do in the dark of night, where no one sees)**_** at 18Coda on Livejournal. I keep being rather fascinated by the idea of what would happen if Autor managed to get his hands on some of the power he yearns for in the series. A discussion in the Princess Tutu community on Livejournal largely inspired this experiment. I was told that this music twist has been used by fans before, but I hope it's common enough and mine is different enough that it won't look like I'm stealing from anyone! I have some other possible stories in this verse that I may tinker with and post later. Thanks to everyone who provided plot help!**

With Autor's obsessive interest in writing---particularly Drosselmeyer's writing---some had wondered why he had chosen to study music at Kinkan Academy. But music had always interested him a great deal, too---the intricacies of the chords and notes, the wide variety of genres and seemingly endless melodies, and the stories that were told within each piece. Music was also a form of writing, and with Fakir being the one directly descended from Drosselmeyer, Autor had been forced to concede that Fakir was the one to succeed Drosselmeyer as a Story-Spinner. He was not interested in writing novels that would not come true, so he preferred to ignore that idea altogether and focus on musical composition.

Following Drosselmeyer's defeat and the restoration of Kinkan Town to its normal self, Autor had once again busied himself with his music training. He would play for long hours at the school's piano, working with each composer's piece until its performance was perfected. And the more he played, the more thoughts began to creep into his mind, thoughts that he had been considering off and on for years now.

It was time he composed his own masterpiece, wasn't it? He did not intend, after all, to only play other's works throughout his life. He would not receive near as much recognition for that as he would becoming the next brilliant writer of music. And recognition was something he wanted . . . needed, even. He wanted to be acknowledged as having made a great achievement to the world. It was his most fervent and intense desire, and had been ever since he had first started thinking about such things as a child.

He had pushed the ideas of writing music to the side when Fakir had begun growing interested in his powers. But with Drosselmeyer's Story ended, there was no real reason to delay any longer.

And so he started the next day, with a fragment of melody that had already been going through his mind for some time. He worked with it for hours, hitting and missing, suffering frustration as some continuations of notes failed, triumph as still others worked. He did not stop to eat or sleep. It was time-consuming, as any form of composition was, but it was also well worth it. It was his and no one else's. That gave him a strong sense of pride.

As he worked, a story to go with it began developing in his mind, something not unlike one of Drosselmeyer's tragedies. Something involving star-crossed lovers whose relationship would never be. . . . A woman waiting patiently for a man who would never return from battle. . . .

He paused, frowning a bit. Was it really something he wanted to do? The melody was haunting, melancholy, reflective of the woman waiting in vain. The image was clear, as if it belonged with the piece. In fact, he was not sure now that he could ever associate it with anything different.

Well, why not? There was nothing wrong with that. Drosselmeyer had been his idol for so long. If he could not be a Story-Spinner, why shouldn't he at least try something in his music that would be a tribute, a nod, to a great genius?

Yes, he determined, as he scribbled in the next notes. That was what he would do.

****

It was two days after he completed and played the work in private that he was looking at the newspaper and discovered an odd report. A woman whose significant other had been lost in a gruesome battle was being interviewed for her decision to keep a vigil on the cliff overlooking the port from which his ship had set out.

"I won't believe he's gone," she told the reporter. "Not until I have more proof. So I'm going to stay here and wait for him to come home."

Autor frowned, folding the newspaper on the table. That was an odd coincidence.

. . . It did have to be a coincidence, didn't it? He peered at the article again. He did not have strong enough Story-Spinning powers for something like this, and anyway, he had been writing music, not a story.

Though he had said himself that music also told stories. . . .

The thought was both alarming and dangerously exciting. But he should not get ahead of himself. And even if there was some way it could be true, he did not want to twist people's fates as Drosselmeyer had, dragging them from one tragedy to another and seeing them as little more than his puppets. If he actually did have powers, and had brought his music's story to life, then he was responsible for the battle that had killed that woman's lover. And who knew how many others?

He slumped back, feeling ill.

He would have to try writing something else, something beneficial to someone, to see whether this was all a frightening coincidence or not.

****

It was only after the third piece that he was fully convinced. Three times he had composed music with definite stories behind it, and three times, to varying degrees, they had come true. Now, as he sat alone at the piano he had purchased for his home, the room lit only by candles, he was awestruck and overwhelmed.

What luck was this, finally shining on his bereaved existence? He did possess the power that he had longed for and sought after for so many years! Or perhaps an even better, more clever version of it. He did not need the Bookmen's, or even the oak tree's, permission to write music. That was out of all of their jurisdiction and expertise. They would probably not even realize what was happening.

He looked over the various pages of notes, his brown eyes illuminated by the candles' steady glow. Of course he would have to be careful of what he wrote. The last thing he wanted was for another tragedy such as that battle to come true. The very thought made him grow ill again. He had warned Fakir to be prepared for that possibility if his writing went amiss, yet when his own writing was involved, he had not been prepared at all. Though of course, he had never once dreamed it would start coming true.

He would not be another Drosselmeyer. Even though he still greatly admired the man's abilities, he did not garner any sort of satisfaction from manipulating people and animals to his own whims, crafting one heartbreak after another. No, he would be different. He would control outcomes without people realizing it was happening, but he would do it for the good of all. He would use his powers to remake the world into a better place. And someday all would see his superior powers, his intellect, and his wisdom.

He would be the greatest Story-Spinner possible.

_"Oho," _Drosselmeyer said to himself as he observed from afar. _"This is an interesting twist. Who would have thought that a boy I dismissed would come up with powers such as these?"_ He grinned, chuckling to himself. _"Unfortunately for you, you're much too confident in yourself and sadly lacking any judgment on your susceptibility to corruption. And that makes you vulnerable to the powers of the Story itself, which might not be benevolent. Let's just see how long it will take for the Story to seize control, shall we, Autor, my boy?"_

He rocked in his chair, his mad laughter echoing throughout his dimension.

****

Months passed. Autor drew further away from others and continued to write, at an almost feverish rate as the time went by. And with each song that he finished, something else changed in the world. On the surface, everything looked and felt normal and welcome, and with very few exceptions, no one questioned what was happening. And after all, Autor thought, as he worked late one night, why should they? Everything that was changing was doing so in their favor.

"Soon," he muttered aloud to the empty room, "this will be a perfect world. And it will be by my hand that it will unfold. This is what I've worked for, all that I've wanted ever since I can remember."

His hand trembled as he mapped out the next measure. Wasn't it exciting? To think, that the world was undergoing such a revolutionary and yet unsuspecting rebirth, all because of him and his abilities. He had thought such a thing would only happen in his fantasies.

But then he paused with a frown, the hand with the quill poised above the parchment. The only problem was, no one did know it was him. And he wanted them to know of his accomplishments. He wanted everyone to see what he had done. More than just power, he still wanted recognition. He wanted to be revered, remembered.

When the time was right. It wasn't, not yet. Once he had enough control, then and only then would he reveal his identity as the one who had been setting things right. Humanity would be grateful. Everyone would praise him. Why wouldn't they, considering that their existence had improved all because of him?

And once the time was right, how did he plan to announce himself? It would have to be something fitting . . . a grand performance, perhaps. Maybe he would create a score for an opera or a ballet that, when played in public, would seal his fate as the one worthy to wield his powers over the whole earth---whether or not everyone wanted to accept him as being such.

It was a brilliant idea; he should start work on it right away. After all, it would take some time to complete.

He, of course, did not notice the power-hungry gleam in his eye as he resumed his current composition. Nor was he in the slightest aware of how he was changing.

Perhaps he, more than even the world, was what was different the most right now.

****

Fakir and Ahiru were two of the questioning few exceptions as the world they lived in changed around them. But while Fakir was more concerned about the world-wide events, Ahiru was largely worried over another matter.

"Doesn't Autor seem weird lately?" she frowned as they walked to school. "I mean . . . weirder than usual?" She kicked a small stone out of her path, watching it scuttle ahead into the fallen autumn leaves.

Fakir grunted. "He's more distant . . . more arrogant. When I see him at all." He kept his hands in his pockets, glowering ahead at the cobblestone street. He and Autor were not close, though they had interacted some after the end of Drosselmeyer's story. Lately, however, Autor had returned to his reclusive ways, even more than usual. It used to be common to find him in the library. Now he was rarely ever there. He spent most of his time in the music room at the piano---or presumably, at his home. He had never boarded at the academy, for reasons unknown to Fakir, but he really did not care, either. Autor could do whatever he wanted.

Ahiru sighed. "I wonder what he's doing." Autor had not been one of her favorite people by any stretch of the imagination, but she had come to think much more highly of him after learning how he had helped Fakir during the final battle against the Raven. He had even started to warm up to her a bit; they had occasionally conversed after Fakir had changed her back into a girl, and Ahiru had found he could be quite nice. She did not want to think that anything was amiss with him now.

"I'm more worried about what the world is doing." Fakir's voice was flat, matter-of-fact, as he stared ahead.

Ahiru blinked, looking up at him. "Is there something weird about it?" she asked.

"I don't know." Fakir finally looked to her. "On the surface, everything seems fine. Things seem to be moving in a good direction everywhere. There's more of an emphasis on education and studying. People are reading more books and gaining better knowledge. But . . ." He paused, considering, then shook his head. "It just doesn't feel right. It's too sudden, too polished . . . too subtle."

Suddenly Ahiru was worried. "You don't think Drosselmeyer's trying to control everything again, do you?" she said.

"No," Fakir said. "This doesn't seem like his style. There's not any tragedy, not that I can see, anyway."

"Then there shouldn't be anything to worry about," Ahiru said, perking up. "It's probably all just a coincidence. Maybe things were moving along like this before and we just didn't notice because Kinkan Town was sealed in a bubble!"

"Maybe," Fakir said, his tone noncommittal.

"You don't think that's it," Ahiru realized.

"No, I don't," Fakir said. "It feels . . . almost like someone is guiding everything to whatever end they want. Maybe I can sense it because I'm Drosselmeyer's descendant. I just don't know who could be behind it or what end it is they want. . . ." He trailed off, his eyes widening.

"What is it?" Ahiru gasped.

"There's only one other person I know who could possibly be responsible for all this," Fakir said. "Someone we both know."

"Autor?!" Ahiru said in disbelief. "But he . . ."

"I know, he isn't supposed to have strong enough powers," Fakir said. "But I think I'll go see him anyway."

Ahiru fell silent, thinking for a minute. "If he isn't doing it, he should still know it's happening, right?" she said, looking to him again. "And it's weird he wouldn't have said anything about it to you, Fakir."

"Not if he wants to figure it out himself," Fakir said. "Either way, you're right---he knows. He'd have to. I'll look for him at the academy."

Ahiru nodded, wishing she did not have a strange sinking feeling in her stomach. "Fakir?" she said, her voice very small.

He looked to her. "What is it?"

"If Autor's really doing this . . . he's doing something good, isn't he?"

Fakir wished he had the answer.

"I don't know," he said gruffly.

It was starting to look like what he and what Ahiru worried about was the same thing in the end.

****

As it turned out, Fakir did not have a free moment to search. Classes were full and some ran overtime, leaving barely enough minutes to race to the next one. And by the time the final class of the day was over, Autor had already disappeared from the building and the grounds. But Fakir was undaunted; he could only think of one place Autor would have most likely gone. And so, after leaving Ahiru with an enthusiastic Piké and Lilie, assuring her that it would be better if he went alone, he left the academy.

He continued to ponder on the unusual events as he walked, ignoring the falling and swirling leaves blowing free of their trees. The world was changing, and Autor was changing, but it certainly did not mean it was all connected. There were too many other things that added up, however---first and foremost being the feeling that a Story was being nudged into place. A Story that really was not Drosselmeyer's style. But would it be Autor's style?

Fakir slowed his pace, his eyes narrowed. In spite of what he had told Ahiru, he really felt that Autor would have come to talk to him if he did not know who was responsible for the Story. And that only left a couple of other possibilities.

Either Autor did not sense anything, whether or not something was actually happening, or Fakir was going crazy and he was not sensing anything, either.

Or . . .

He trailed off as he approached Autor's was not a surprise, to hear music being played from within. Autor had probably escaped home as soon as his classes were done. Fakir knocked loudly on the heavy wooden door, wondering if he would be heard at all over the sound of the piano.

But his thoughts were unfounded; the music stopped and footsteps could be heard across the floor. A moment later, Autor opened the door. When he saw Fakir standing outside, his expression dark and unimpressed, he only smirked in reply.

"Fakir," he said, his voice smooth as he stepped aside, "I wondered how long it would be before you'd come."

Fakir entered without bothering to wait for a verbal invitation. "I've been having a funny feeling lately," he said as he walked into the vestibule. He turned, looking to Autor as the other boy shut the door. There was no change in Autor's stance, or in his self-assured expression, as he looked back to Fakir. This only made Fakir more annoyed than ever.

". . . I feel like someone's been writing a Story," he said. "A Story like Drosselmeyer's, that's controlling things."

"And yet you're supposed to be his successor," Autor said. "If anyone's written anything, it should be you."

Fakir felt like grinding his teeth. "Haven't you sensed it?" he said.

"I haven't sensed anything like Drosselmeyer's Story," Autor said as he headed back to the piano. "If there's any controlling going on, it doesn't seem to be a harm to anyone." He sat down on the bench, resuming the piece he had been playing when Fakir had arrived.

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "It's you, isn't it?" he said as he followed the other student. He placed his hands on the piano, glaring at the smug Drosselmeyer fanboy. "You're the one doing this!"

"Would it bother you so much if I was?" Autor said, his fingers flying over the keys. "Maybe you wish you were the one with the ideas and the drive for how to make this world better."

"The Story-Spinning powers aren't supposed to be used like this!" Fakir exclaimed. "This is too widespread. Even Drosselmeyer never tried to control the whole world!" He gripped the varnished wood tighter. "The Bookmen will never accept this. They'll cut off your hands just like they did to Drosselmeyer!"

Autor looked up, a wild grin twisting his features in a way that made Fakir's heart drop. "I'm more ambitious than Drosselmeyer!" he declared. "And the Bookmen can't do anything about it. I'm out of their jurisdiction!"

Fakir let go of the piano, taken aback. "What?" he said in disbelief. "What do you mean, you're out of their jurisdiction?!" He shook his head. "And there's only supposed to be one Story-Spinner at a time. You taught me that yourself! You can't use your powers if someone else has already been chosen to use theirs. Yours aren't even supposed to be strong enough to do this in the first place!"

Autor's fingers slammed on the keys in an angry burst of chords. "Are you jealous?" he said. Smirking, he began to expertly move his fingers to once again perform the complicated piece. "You are the only Story-Spinner, Fakir. What I told you is true. I'm not writing the way you write."

Again Fakir was confused. "Not the way I write?" he muttered. But even as he spoke, the answer came to him. "You're using music," he gasped. "You're writing something right now, aren't you?!"

"Maybe I am," Autor said. "And you're the only person who knows it." He smirked. "It's not time yet for my public debut."

Fakir brought his hand down hard on the piano's shelf, jostling the sheets of music. "You'll never get away with this," he exclaimed. "Whether it's in their jurisdiction or not, the Bookmen won't stand for you using any kind of Story-Spinning powers, especially on the whole world. Idiot, what are you thinking?!"

"Even if they try, they won't be able to lay a hand on me!" Autor vowed. "My fate won't be the same as Drosselmeyer's." He looked at Fakir, raising an eyebrow in a self-assured way. "But I hope you don't plan to tell them what I've been doing." His expression darkened. "I'd hate to have to make certain that you _can't,_ now or ever."

Fakir's eyes widened in disbelief and shock at these words. He had been about to say that he would not tell them anything, but now it seemed irrelevant. He reached over, grabbing Autor by the ruffled scarf around his neck and pulling him off the bench.

"Do you mean what you just said?!" he growled, the underlying anger and betrayal in his voice cutting the air like a dagger.

Autor's eyes flickered in surprise, but whether from Fakir's actions or his words, it was not clear. But then they darkened. "Yes," he said. "I won't let anyone stand in my way, not now. I almost have everything where I want it. After years of dreaming and planning in vain, all that I wanted is coming to fruition."

Fakir let him go, sending him crashing unceremoniously back to the piano bench. "Then you're a stranger to me," he said. "And I won't let you get away with this. What you're doing may look honorable now, but you have some selfish motive underneath it."

Autor merely glared at his former ally, his glasses slipping down his nose. "We're enemies now," he said. "You should get out."

"Gladly." Fakir whirled, stalking to the entryway and throwing open the door. But as he stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him, he paused, his hand still gripping the knob.

Ahiru, of course, would protest his leaving, once she knew what had happened. She would want to figure out if there was still a way to get through to Autor. And maybe once Fakir cooled down, he would feel different---but at this moment he was angry, shaken, and hurt. He did not want to stay another minute. Seeing how Autor had changed over the last few months haunted him. The threat on his life was the final straw.

"Idiot!" he muttered under his breath. "So this is why the oak tree never chose you. It knew that if you had any power, it would go right to your head. It knew the power would destroy you." He clenched a fist. "I didn't even recognize you in there."

He let go of the knob, stalking away.

_"Oh dear, oh dear!"_ Drosselmeyer sneered. _"So one of your only friends has turned against you already, has he?"_ His cruelly amused grin widened. _"He didn't even stop to think that it could be the Story talking and not you. Of course, why would he consider such a thing, since you're supposed to be the one writing and controlling the Story? The Story isn't supposed to write and control you! Oh, this is shaping into an excellent tragedy. And without me doing a thing. Imagine that."_

Inside the house, Autor was still sitting at the bench, visibly shaken by what had transpired. He stared off at the door without seeing it, his eyes wide and his skin pale.

"Did I . . . really say that?" he whispered. "Did I mean it?"

But then his eyes darkened and he drew a deep breath, attempting to return his attention to the piano keys. The notes he played now were a confused, angry tumult echoing off the walls. The candles around him flickered.

"I don't need him," he muttered. "I don't need anyone."

His hands were faintly trembling.

Drosselmeyer was delighted. _"Just wait, Autor, my boy," _he said. _"You will be left all alone in the end, and even though the Story is making you think you want that, let's see how it will feel to have no one to stand beside you._

_"That is . . . if you ever wake up from under the Story's influence enough to care!"_


	2. Canon

**Prompt #3 – **_**Canon (Twisted Imitation)**_

Fakir was in a badly soured mood when he arrived back at the academy. It was a relief to see that Ahiru was waiting by the gate; he definitely did not feel like dealing with Piké and Lilie. Of course, knowing them and their insistence on Ahiru pursuing her "love life", they were probably waiting in the bushes nearby, hoping to see something juicy happen.

It was odd, he reflected as Ahiru hurried out to him. The more time that passed since the end of Drosselmeyer's Story, the more people seemed to remember, rather than forget. But it was just bits and pieces; a person here, an event there. Piké and Lilie had welcomed Ahiru with open arms when she had first arrived back at the academy, and as they had told her later, they had been starting to have strange feelings that they had met before. Ahiru had been so surprised she had not known what to say or whether to deny it. But Lilie, with her flighty mind, had not focused on the subject for long. And now it was as if no time had passed at all between them, albeit Pike and Lilie still did not remember everything that had transpired under Drosselmeyer's Story. Fakir was not sure it would be a good thing if or when they did.

"Fakir!" Ahiru exclaimed now, dragging him back to the present. "What happened with Autor?" She stopped stiff at his storm cloud expression. "Did you find him?" she asked in a smaller voice.

"I found him." Fakir kept his hands shoved in his pockets as they walked away. He was certain he could hear two disappointed moans from the bushes. Ordinarily he might have asked, mostly out of amusement to see Ahiru become flustered over it, but right now he could not care less.

Ahiru kept pace beside him, nervous and concerned now. "Did it . . . not go well?" she said at last.

"You could say that."

They walked in silence for several minutes before Ahiru could not stand it any longer. "Well, what happened?!" she burst out. "Fakir, you're really upset!"

He turned to look at her. "Autor's changed," he said.

She slowed her pace, regarding him in surprise. "Changed?" she repeated. "How?"

"Not in a good way." Fakir's expression darkened. "You wouldn't have known him. I barely did."

Ahiru felt her stomach sinking. But she frowned at him in frustration. "I still don't get it!" she said. "What's he doing, Fakir?! Why wouldn't I have known him?!"

"He's writing Stories with music," Fakir said. "He is the one who's been changing the world."

"But . . . that's a good thing, isn't it?" Ahiru said in confusion. "I mean, he hasn't been doing anything bad to the world. . . ."

"He wants the power." Fakir stopped at the next street corner, turning to look at her. She gasped at the intensity in his eyes. "Maybe he started out with good intentions, but now he's too caught up in the control he thinks he has. The power's destroyed him."

Ahiru clenched her fists. "It's only been a few months!" she said. "It can't have destroyed him already! Fakir, we have to help him!"

"I'm going to stop him. I don't know how to help him." Fakir looked away, his visage still dark and conflicted.

Ahiru fumed. "How can you say that?!" she exclaimed. "We can't give up on him just like that. He's our friend! He protected you from that creepy Bookman guy when you were writing the end of Drosselmeyer's Story. And even though he hasn't been able to prove it, we know he's probably related to you! Fakir . . ."

He cut her off. "He threatened me," he said flatly.

Ahiru, about to yell some more, now just stared at him. "He _threatened_ you?!" she gasped. "How?"

"He basically told me he'd kill me if I interfered." Just saying the words brought the bitter taste back to his mouth.

Ahiru stepped back, shaking her head in stunned and horrified disbelief. "But . . . Autor wouldn't," she said. "He's never killed anyone! And he wouldn't threaten you of all people, Fakir . . ." She trailed off. Fakir's expression had not lightened in the slightest.

Her shoulders slumped. "He really said that?" she said now.

Fakir nodded. "I told you he's changed."

They started walking again, both more sobered. A dark cloud hung over them, growing stronger as they thought of what this meant—for them, for Autor . . . for the world. None of it sounded good.

"Isn't there any other explanation?" Ahiru said at last.

"Like what?" Fakir returned.

"Like . . . I don't know!" Ahiru said, feeling helpless. "Anything that would show there's still some hope for him. I don't want to believe he's been corrupted just like that. I _can't_ believe it. Fakir, I want to talk to him!"

"What?!" Fakir stopped, whirling to face her. "_You_ do?"

He should have expected it, really. Ahiru would never give up without a fight. Everything he had told her had only served to make her all the more determined.

Ahiru gave a firm nod. "Maybe I can get through to him!" she said. "There has to be a way!"

A slight smile broke through Fakir's angry visage. If anyone could find a way, Ahiru could. And her confidence that there was one almost made Fakir believe it was really true.

"Fakir? Ahiru?"

Both Fakir and Ahiru stiffened in shock and disbelief at the familiar voice. As they turned to look in its general direction, Ahiru's eyes widened in sheer joy.

"Mytho!" she exclaimed. "And Rue!" She ran towards the approaching couple, her arms outstretched. To both their surprise, Ahiru hugged them at once. As they recovered, they awkwardly returned the embrace with one arm each.

Fakir followed close behind, stopping when he was standing in front of them. "Prince," he greeted, stunned by their arrival. He had thought that they were both gone for good and would forever remain in the Story from which Mytho had emerged years before. He had consigned himself to the belief that he would never see Mytho again.

Mytho smiled at him. "For you, Fakir, and Ahiru too, 'Mytho' is fine," he said. "I lived for so long under that name that I still think of myself as Mytho sometimes."

Ahiru pulled back. "I'm so glad!" she said. "We've missed you both so much, haven't we, Fakir?"

"Yeah," Fakir said, his tone gruff. Of course, he really could not say he had missed Rue, and judging from her expression, she felt likewise about him. But he had certainly missed Mytho. After having tried to protect Mytho since his childhood years, it had been so strange and had felt so wrong, for him to not be around anymore. Fakir had tried to push those feelings aside, telling himself that Mytho was happier being back in the Story, yet deep down he knew he could not help missing Mytho anyway.

"What brings you back here?" he asked now.

"Something strange has been happening in the world," Mytho said. "It's been affecting our land too."

Ahiru gasped, while Fakir's eyes narrowed. "It's affecting your land?" Ahiru cried. "How?"

"We're not sure," Rue said, speaking for the first time. "The King and Queen wanted us to investigate, so we came."

Mytho nodded. "We thought it would be a perfect opportunity to see our old friends again," he smiled. "We might stay a while."

"Can you do that?" Fakir said in surprise.

"You did say I would be able to live freely, Fakir," Mytho said lightly.

Fakir smiled. "I did," he said. He half-turned, gesturing for them to follow. "We were going back to Charon's," he said. "Come with us. He'll want to see you."

"And there'll be food!" Ahiru added.

Mytho chuckled. "Well, we can't pass that up, can we?" he said, winking at Rue. Growing more serious he said, "I've missed Charon too. It will be good to see him again."

"And after dinner we'll talk," Fakir said.

Rue looked to him. From his tone of voice, she knew that he had some idea of what was going wrong. She just prayed it was not anything serious, anything that would take Mytho from her. From the way their land was being rewritten—or recomposed, as it were—there was no telling what might happen.

"Alright then," she said. "After dinner."

****

Autor was hard at work on his latest composition when a voice outside his window made him pause.

"Mytho! The wonderful Mytho has come back! And he's brought Rue!"

The voice was unfamiliar—just one of the academy's Mytho fangirls—but the words seared into his heart. He stood, his eyes flickering as he crossed to the window. "Rue," he whispered, peering into the oncoming evening in the hope of catching a glimpse of the girl who had so deeply captured his heart in the past. But there was no one to be seen, just the student rushing to meet a friend with her news.

His eyes flickered again. What did it matter if Rue had returned? She had scorned him, laughing in his face when he had told her of his love for her. It should not make any difference to him if she was back in Kinkan Town.

He turned, going back to the piano. He would show her that he did not need her; he had something better. He had power. He had Drosselmeyer's power, Drosselmeyer's blood flowing through his veins. And he would become the ruler of this world all on his own, without a princess to stand beside him. Certainly not a princess who had never returned his feelings.

Feelings like that were useless things, anyway. They had caused him nothing but heartache.

"_Oh, that's dangerous thinking, Autor my boy,"_ Drosselmeyer commented. _"Are you sure you want to go down that path? If you keep on it, before long you'll decide that all kinds of caring for others is useless, too. And that will certainly tarnish your pure heart. Of course . . ."_ He laughed. _"It makes this tragedy all the more heart-wrenching! I wonder if the prince will regret bringing Rue back here before this is over."_

As Autor returned to his composition once again, the notes became darker, soaked in the long-sealed pain of his unrequited love. His visage was its mirror, eerily veiled in dancing shadows by the candlelight.

And as Drosselmeyer watched, he continued to laugh. This was a good show.

****

After a delicious and filling dinner served by a surprised and gracious Charon, the four friends sat around the kitchen table to exchange stories of the events that were encompassing the world.

"You go first," Fakir said, looking to Mytho. "What's happening in the Story?"

"Well, for one thing, we discovered the Story is no longer a Story," Mytho said. "Our land has merged with this one. It's part of Earth now."

Ahiru leaned forward, her eyes wide and glittering with excitement. "So we can visit any time we want?" she exclaimed.

Rue smiled at her enthusiasm. Still the same Ahiru. "That's right," she said.

Fakir frowned. "Did this happen because of what's been affecting your land lately?" he asked. Silently, he was unable to deny that he liked this twist. But if Autor had caused it, what reason could he have had? Was it something that would bring harm to Mytho and Rue? Something that would have to be reversed?

Mytho shook his head. "We discovered it when we first went there, though we weren't altogether convinced until some time later," he said. "It must be an effect of Drosselmeyer's Story ending . . . or maybe of what you wrote for it, Fakir. These other changes started happening a few weeks ago. It's strange—every time one of them is taking place, we can hear music playing in the wind, but we can never find the source."

Ahiru blinked. "That doesn't happen here," she said. "At least . . . I don't remember hearing any music. Have you, Fakir?"

He shook his head. "What kinds of things are happening?" he asked.

"On the surface, nothing that looked bad at first," Rue said. "A new school was built, one with a large library. But no one can remember how it got there. Similar things have been happening with other buildings for education."

"Then something else started happening," Mytho said. "Suddenly the court has been completely disrupted. Everyone is confused and no one seems to know how to complete their assignments. When they hear the music, all they want to do is find the one playing it." He sighed. "The King and Queen are worried that some enchanter is trying to usurp the kingdom with his powers of captivating music."

"And that brings us to you." Rue studied first Fakir and then Ahiru. "Do you know who could be behind this?"

Ahiru looked down. "Well . . ."

Fakir sighed. ". . . Do you remember Autor?" he said, glancing to Mytho.

The prince blinked. "Autor?" he repeated. "Wasn't he helping you write the Story, Fakir?"

The green-eyed boy nodded. "He saved my life." And now the bitter taste had returned again. He had come to think of Autor as a friend, and Autor had turned against him—against everyone—like this?

Rue stared at him. "You're not saying he's . . ." For some reason she had gone utterly pale.

"Something's wrong with him!" Ahiru said, clenching her fists. "I'm going to talk to him!"

Fakir looked away. "He found out he could use power similar to Drosselmeyer's, just with music," he said. "He's not the same as he was before. All he wants now is more control." The memory of Autor's twisted expression—so different from even the smirks he had given Fakir in the past—flashed through his mind. This Autor was a dark and warped shadow of the student they had known.

"He told me his plans. Basically they involve world conquest through music." Fakir loathed even talking about it, but Mytho and Rue deserved to know. They needed to know what they were up against.

"This is bad," Mytho said. "We're going to have to find a way to stop him before it gets that far. Fakir, can you use your writing?"

"I don't know. I might not have any power over him when he's using music." Fakir glared at the table. He did not want to fight Autor. He found himself wishing again that Ahiru's talk really could bring the other boy to his senses. But somewhere in his heart, he doubted it would happen. What he had seen in Autor's eyes was complete madness.

"Before I left his house, he threatened my life."

Ahiru flinched, hating to hear it again. Mytho and Rue looked stunned.

"Really, Fakir?" Mytho said.

Fakir nodded. "Autor always valued life," he said. "To see him like that . . ." He gritted his teeth. "I could hardly even believe it."

Abruptly, Rue pushed her chair back from the table. "Excuse me," she said, her voice quiet and husky.

The others looked up in surprise and confusion as she stood to leave the room. "Rue . . ." Ahiru protested, reaching for her arm. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," Rue said, pulling away as she opened the door and walked outside.

Fakir looked to Mytho, bewildered. But Mytho only looked back, his golden eyes wide and equally confused.

Ahiru jumped to her feet. "I'll talk to her," she declared, hurrying after the older girl.

Fakir managed a slight smile. "Let her do it," he said to Mytho, who was moving to get up too. "Ahiru has a way with people."

Mytho stopped and leaned back. "Yes, I know," he said, smiling a bit as well. "She always has. It's somewhat surprising, since she wasn't even always a human herself."

"I think she was meant to be," Fakir said. "Maybe that's why . . ." He listened to the sound of the determined, fading footsteps.

"Why she didn't have to stay a duck."

****

Ahiru found Rue on a wooden bench, her arms hugging her chest as she gazed into the night. The redhead promptly sat next to her, looking at her in kind concern. She had not seen Rue so upset since the days of Drosselmeyer's Story. What could be wrong?

"Why aren't you inside with the others?" Rue asked, not even turning to look. She knew it was Ahiru.

"Because I'm worried about you, Rue!" Ahiru said. "Mytho and Fakir are, too."

Rue allowed a smirk of dark amusement. Fakir would not be worried, but Mytho definitely would be. Still, this was something that had taken her a long time to speak of even to him. After she had started to try to heal, it was too painful to discuss. She hated talking about her time as Kraehe and about the things she had done.

"What's wrong, Rue?" Ahiru asked. "Are you worried about what's going to happen to your kingdom? We're going to fix it!"

"I know." Rue sighed. There would be no hope that Ahiru would leave the conversation alone—not unless Rue flat-out told her to leave _her_ alone, and she did not want to be unkind to Ahiru. Not now. And maybe, in some way, part of her did want to tell this story.

". . . I met Autor once," she said.

Ahiru blinked. "You did?! When?"

"It wasn't long before Drosselmeyer's Story ended." Rue continued to stare into the distance, memories darting in front of her eyes. She had fallen to the cobblestone street in despair, discouraged and disconsolate, and _he_ had found her there. . . . He, who had long watched her from afar and had never had the courage to speak of his feelings, until their meeting. . . .

Ahiru swallowed. "Oh. . . ." She shifted on the bench. "If you don't want to talk about it, Rue . . ."

Rue shook her head, her black curls bouncing with the motion. "No, I'll tell it." She sighed. "I tried to take his heart for the Raven."

Now Ahiru gasped. She had not known about that! Had Autor needed her help and she had not been around to give it? But . . . his heart had not been taken. He had been around, relatively alright before being injured in the fight against the Bookmen's leader. What had happened?

"I led him to an abandoned building where I was going to try to perform the ritual," Rue said, breaking into her thoughts. "But then he . . . he said something I never thought I'd hear."

Ahiru stared with wide blue eyes. "What did he say?" she asked.

"Well . . . first you should know something else." Rue gripped her arms. "Ever since I was a small child, the Raven told me that only he and the prince from the Story could ever love me. I believed it. And for a long time, it seemed to really be true. My failure at getting Femio's heart only made it worse.

"And then Autor told me he loved me."

Ahiru's mouth dropped open. Of all things Rue could have said, she could never have imagined this. Now she was torn between outrage at the Raven's lies and shock and amazement at Autor's words. For once she could not think what to say.

"He even said he loved me enough to give his life, which was something the Raven said _no one_ would be willing to do for me." Rue's voice had gotten much quieter. "He wasn't even under a spell at the time. It was his real feelings."

"What did you do?" Ahiru exclaimed.

"I didn't believe him," Rue said. "I'm not sure I ever really did. It went against everything I'd been taught for as long as I'd been able to understand words. And I laughed." She closed her eyes. "I can still see how hurt he looked.

"But . . . even though I couldn't believe it was for real, I couldn't take his heart then. I just couldn't. I sent him away."

Ahiru's eyes were glistening. She was stunned by everything she had been told. "Rue . . ."

Rue shook her head. "He had a good heart," she said. "A strong and beautiful heart, the kind the Raven always wanted. And now, if he's been corrupted . . ."

Ahiru threw her arms around Rue. "We're going to save him, Rue," she said in determination. "He couldn't be gone, just like that." She fought to push the memory of his harsh words to Fakir out of her mind. Rue, as Kraehe, had said and done horrible, hurtful things too. But in the end she was still Rue. She had overcome Kraehe. And whatever Autor's inner demons were, Ahiru had to believe that he would triumph over them.

Rue gave a weak smile. "You never change, Ahiru," she said. "It's no wonder you became Princess Tutu, really. You were probably the only one with enough hope to do it." It had taken a little duck to bring hope in their hour of need. Rue had drawn on that hope so many times as she had tried to recover from her past actions. They all needed it again now.

Ahiru blinked in surprise. "Anyone can have that hope, Rue," she said.

"Some people don't know how to hope," Rue said. "And some have had it beaten down so many times that it feels like it's dead." Slowly she returned the hug before pulling away and getting to her feet. "I want to believe we'll get Autor back. I never knew him well, but I don't want anything to happen to him. Sometimes . . ." Her voice lowered again. "I can't help wondering what would have happened if I hadn't sent him away. I would never fall in love with anyone but Mytho," she added quickly, "but I still wonder."

Ahiru stood as well, looking at Rue for a moment before speaking once more. "It's never too late to make a new friend, Rue," she said. "Autor needs some right now."

"I don't even know that he would want me for a friend," Rue said. "He felt much more than that about me, and I hurt him . . ."

"You'll never know if you don't try!" Ahiru said.

Rue smiled a bit again, somewhat wry. "You're right," she said. "As usual."

Ahiru gave an enthusiastic nod. "So you should come with me when I talk to him!" she said.

Rue stiffened. "He might be more willing to listen if it was just you, Ahiru," she said. But was that how she truly felt, or was she just afraid of how the meeting would go if she was there?

Maybe a bit of both. It could easily become very awkward, considering both Autor's feelings for her and the way their only rendezvous had ended. And if he was really as corrupt now as Fakir claimed, he might only get angry if she was there.

Ahiru looked disappointed. "But Rue . . ."

"I'll tell you what," Rue interrupted. "You talk to him, but I'll wait for you. If it looks like there's an opening, I'll come in too."

Ahiru blinked but nodded. "Okay," she agreed then, smiling brightly. "We'll help Autor come back to himself and then everything will be alright!"

"We'll see," Rue said. "Let's go inside. Mytho and Fakir must be wondering what we're doing out here so late."

Ahiru was quite agreeable to that idea. "It's good to have you back, Rue," she said as she went to the door. "You and Mytho. I hope you can stay for a long time."

Rue smiled. As they went inside, she found herself hoping the same. Being back in Kinkan Town felt so right.

Fakir looked up when the door opened. "What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing," Rue answered smoothly, crossing to the chair by Mytho. "We were just having a talk."

Ahiru nodded, plopping down by Fakir. "Rue's going to come with me tomorrow," she said.

"So you're really going to do it?" Fakir said.

"Of course!" Ahiru retorted. "You're not really giving up on Autor, are you, Fakir?"

Fakir looked at the table. "No," he said. "I just don't know how to help him."

"_Does anyone?"_ Drosselmeyer grinned from his chair. _"Will your plan work, little Ahiru? Or will you only make everything worse than ever? Such a shame we have to wait until tomorrow to find out."_


	3. Vivace

**Prompt: #14 - **_**Vivace (You're going too fast)**_

Ahiru was still bound and determined to continue her self-appointed mission the next morning. She had barely scarfed down breakfast before heading for the door and calling for Rue.

"If we hurry, maybe we can catch Autor before he leaves for school!" she said.

Fakir shook his head. "You could probably catch everyone before they leave for school," he commented with a glance at the clock.

Mytho smiled in gentle amusement. Yes, Ahiru's determination and innocence had not changed at all. It was refreshing, really. He would hate to see her lose either of those qualities.

"Are you still planning to go, Rue?" he asked, looking to his princess.

She nodded. "I told Ahiru I would," she said. But her reluctance and concern were clearly displayed in her red-violet eyes. Mytho, the only other person who knew of her history with Autor, would understand. Fakir would not, at least not beyond the general sense of discomfort that might be experienced when convinced to accompany Ahiru on one of her quests. And that was alright with her; she did not want Fakir to know of that experience.

"It will be alright," Mytho said, laying his hand over hers.

She managed a smile. "Who knows, maybe Ahiru will actually have some success," she said as she got up from the table.

Mytho agreed. "I don't think Autor would ever threaten to hurt either of you," he said.

Fakir clenched a fist. If Autor threatened Ahiru, that would be it, as far as Fakir was concerned. It would be next to impossible to convince him to give Autor any further chances.

"I'll see you at school, Fakir!" Ahiru called as she and Rue went out the door. It banged shut before he had a chance to reply.

He sighed, looking to Mytho. "What are you and Rue planning to do while you're here?" he said. "I mean . . . with your investigation."

Mytho sighed too. "It looks like we've found our culprit," he said. "I never once dreamed it would be anyone we knew. This really complicates everything. I don't want to bring harm to Autor, but he has to be stopped." He leaned forward, massaging his eyes.

"We were sort of wondering if we would be able to get into the academy again," he said, returning to Fakir's original question. "Then we would be able to keep a closer watch on Autor, at least some of the time. Of course, if Ahiru can get through to him now, then there won't be any need for that." He smiled. "But even then, it would be nice to be in the academy again anyway. All of us together, under better circumstances. . . ."

Fakir nodded. It would be nice, he reflected, to dance and to learn with Mytho once more. He had never really even had the chance to get to know the real Mytho. He and Rue had left so soon after the end of Drosselmeyer's Story, worrying about the people back in Mytho's land and being anxious to start their new life together.

"We should be able to arrange it," he said. "Actually, you never officially left the academy. And weird things have been happening. People have been remembering when we were under Drosselmeyer's control. They're remembering you and Rue. It's possible that your records are still around, or that they've magically reappeared, or something."

Mytho blinked. "That's strange," he said. "And this doesn't have any connection with Autor's music?"

"I don't think so," Fakir said. "I don't see any reason for him to do it."

Mytho leaned back. While this was certainly curious, it was not a high priority for him in comparison with the other problems. He would look into it later.

"What could have happened to Autor?" he said sadly.

"He always wanted power," Fakir said. "But getting it was too much for him." Bitterly he clenched a fist.

"You mentioned that last night," Mytho said. "But somehow I don't think it's that simple."

Fakir blinked. "What do you mean?" he said in surprise.

"I don't know," Mytho said with a shake of his head. "It's mostly a feeling I have. I'm not sure this is entirely Autor's fault."

"It couldn't be anyone else's fault," Fakir said. He started to get up from the table.

"Where are you going, Fakir?" Mytho asked, looking to him.

"I want to see what's going on at Autor's place," Fakir said flatly. "Don't tell me you're not wondering."

"Well, yes . . ." Mytho admitted.

"Then come on." Fakir grabbed his blazer and headed for the door. "We'll stay out of sight unless we're needed."

Still a bit surprised, Mytho got up to follow.

"You're worried about Ahiru, aren't you?" he surmised.

Fakir stiffened, his hand on the doorknob. "I saw Autor yesterday," he said. "You didn't. And after what I saw . . . yes, I am worried about Ahiru."

"Then we should hurry," Mytho said.

****

Autor had always tried to get as much of an early start to school as possible, hoping to avoid the crowds also journeying to school or to work. Associating with people had never been a favorite activity of his; in general he kept himself as far-removed and detached as possible.

He felt even more this way now that he had discovered his gift of composition. A typical day for him would be attending classes, practicing in the music room on whatever composers' pieces he was currently focused upon, and going home to work on his own music. He would not play any of it where it would be overheard. Not yet.

He was aware that a few people wondered why he had not frequented the library much of late, but by and large most did not even notice. Of those who did, many did not care. Autor had never endeared himself to them, and it was just as well with them if he was not around. Only a scant number of people had ever gotten close enough to him to see beyond the arrogant exterior.

One of whom he had threatened yesterday.

He paused in his walk, frowning. It seemed a distant memory now. Had it really happened? Maybe it was only a dream. Why would he have treated Fakir that way? Just because Fakir did not agree with what he was doing? Well, Fakir might try to stop him. But there was no need for concern; he would not have any power over Autor when they were writing in different mediums. At least, Autor thought so. What would be the point of threatening him?

And completely aside from that, Autor did not want to hurt anyone. He was trying to better the world, wasn't he? Eliminating Fakir would not be a betterment.

"Autor!"

He started and looked up, his eyes widening in surprise to see Ahiru running towards him, one hand above her head in a wild wave. Her blue eyes were sparkling with excitement, and he allowed a slight, amused smile that most would be surprised to see from him. Always the same Ahiru.

"Autor, how are you?" Ahiru exclaimed as she stopped in front of him. "I was going to your place to see you!"

Autor raised an eyebrow. "You were?" he said.

She nodded. "You haven't been around much lately," she said. "We've been wondering if you're okay, that kind of thing."

"I'm fine," he said. "I've never been better, actually."

Ahiru looked like he had given an unexpected answer. "Really?" she said. "Fakir acted like you weren't doing too well."

He felt himself tense slightly. "Why would he say that?" he said. He resumed his pace, and now Ahiru scurried to keep up with him.

She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I think it was because of what you said to him yesterday," she said. Though she chose her words with care, it was clear that she really knew exactly why Fakir had said that.

"What I said?" Autor looked at her, a mixture of confusion and dread in his eyes. And something else was there as well, something dark lurking behind the prevalent emotions. "What did I say?"

Ahiru shifted. "Uh, well . . . you kinda said you were gonna kill him if he got in your way," she said, her words coming out rushed. "But I know you'd never say that if you were your normal self, so I also know something has to be wrong!"

Autor stopped walking, turning to look at her face-to-face. "I said that?" he said.

Ahiru was not sure she liked the way he was staring her down. "Yeah," she said.

"Only you didn't hear me say it," Autor said. "You just heard Fakir say I said it." And without warning he seized her by her upper arms, his grip tight and insistent. "Can you say without a doubt that I said it?!" His eyes flashed, dark and cold and dangerous.

Ahiru gasped, for the moment too startled to move. But that did not last. "Fakir wouldn't lie!" she cried, struggling to pull free.

He only held tighter. "You don't know I said that!" he said. The darker emotion she had seen at the back of his eyes was now creeping towards the forefront. He was infuriated. And yet somehow, something in his voice also sounded desperate.

Ahiru stared at him, focusing on that emotion. "You didn't want to say it, did you?" she said. Suddenly she felt like Princess Tutu again. But she was not; she was Ahiru, a normal girl without any special powers. And yet she was certain she had just discerned something about his current, true feelings.

He trembled. "I . . . didn't want to?" he repeated. Now the look in his eyes was far away.

"Of course you didn't want to!" Ahiru exclaimed. "You're not like that, Autor. You don't want to hurt Fakir. You never wanted to hurt anyone!"

He released her, still shaking. A look that could only be described as both bewildered and haunted flashed across his face. But then it was gone. He smirked, coolly pushing up his glasses with a finger.

"I'll do whatever I have to do to get control of this world," he said. "That includes ridding myself of all possible threats. If Fakir is a threat, then he'll have to go." He studied Ahiru, who was gaping at him now. "And you can tell him I said that. He sent you, didn't he?"

"No!" Ahiru retorted. "I came all on my own. It was my idea!"

Autor chuckled. "I should have guessed," he said. "That sounds like you, Ahiru."

"Autor. Stop!"

Both he and Ahiru turned as a new voice joined the conversation. A dark-haired girl was walking over to them, her deep red eyes determined and filled with emotion.

Autor paled. "Rue," he whispered. His eyes flickered again. There was a poignant longing within them as his cheeks flushed red.

"I heard you'd come back," he said. "Is it to stay?"

"For a while," Rue said. She stopped in front of him, searching his eyes and his face. This was the Autor she remembered. Still, a moment before, when she had observed from her concealed position, he had been a stranger. He was drowning in the darkness, but he was still alive. There was still hope.

"Are you happy, Rue?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "I'm very happy."

Ahiru stepped back, glancing back and forth between them. Something had definitely happened to Autor when Rue had come out. He looked almost sweet, a side of him Ahiru had rarely seen. The few times he had dropped the prideful mask, she had gotten the feeling that he let hardly anyone see him like that.

"I . . . I'm glad," Autor stammered now. Pain flickered in his eyes.

Abruptly he turned, walking past them both. "I was just saying Goodbye to Ahiru," he said, his tone smooth again. "I don't want to be late getting to class. I anticipate it to be a busy day."

"Well, I'm going to school too," Ahiru said. "We could all walk together!"

"No thank you." Autor looked back over his shoulder. "But remember what I said, Ahiru. I meant it." And he walked on calmly, as if he had not said anything of grave concern.

Ahiru did not want to give up. "Autor!" she called in desperation.

He did not so much as slow his pace.

Ahiru stared after him helplessly. "He acted so weird," she said to Rue. "It's like he's switching between two personalities or something!" She shuddered. "It's creepy. It . . . it reminds me of when Mytho . . ." But she trailed off. That was not something she wanted to bring up around Rue, especially when it had been Rue, as Princess Kraehe, who had misguidedly caused Mytho's descent into madness.

Rue, however, just nodded, her expression grim. "We found out something important," she said. "Fakir judged him mistakenly. Autor's still in there, so maybe there is hope."

"Of course there's hope, Rue!" Ahiru exclaimed. "I knew he couldn't be gone." She clenched a fist. "So now we just have to figure out how to get through to the real him!"

"That might be hard," Rue said, her voice quiet as she gazed after the departing boy. But she would not give up either. Now that she had seen him and witnessed what he was going through, she was determined to find a way to save him.

"Hey! What are you two doing standing in the street like this?"

Again they turned, their eyes widening in surprise to see Fakir and Mytho approaching from a side road. Fakir looked tense, but relaxed a bit to see that they seemed to be alright. Mytho looked more at ease, albeit puzzled.

"We found Autor!" Ahiru babbled. "He'd already left for school, but we met him here. Well, I met him and Rue waited, but then she came out and Autor acted nice to her before going all creepy again!" She cringed. "He was doing the same thing when I first went to say Hi!" She clenched her fists. "He's not all gone yet, Fakir! We both saw the old Autor. So we need to save him!"

Fakir listened as she talked on, her voice getting higher and more hysterical the more she said. "Wait a minute," he finally managed to interrupt. "You saw the old Autor?"

Rue nodded. "He's still there, but something else kept trying to get control of him," she said. "I couldn't tell whether he was aware of that or not. The transition always happened so smoothly it was like he didn't even notice."

Mytho's eyes widened. "Then . . . is that what I've been sensing?" he breathed. "It really wouldn't be entirely Autor's fault if something else is responsible for the cruel and selfish things he's been saying."

Fakir frowned. "But what is it then?" he said. "Power doesn't have a mind of its own. It just poisons yours, if you let it."

Ahiru glowered at the road stretching in front of them as she stood, immersed in thought. When the next idea came to her, it hit so fast and hard that she rocked back.

"Fakir!" she burst out.

He jumped a mile. "What is it?!" he said. "I'm standing right here; you don't have to yell my ear off."

She shook her head. "You said that when you were Writing, you didn't have any control over it," she said. "It just kept flowing with people's feelings and the stuff going on and . . ."

"But I had control over my mind," Fakir said. "I knew what I was doing." Subconsciously he ran his fingers over the scar on the back of his right hand, where he had stabbed himself to make the Story stop when Drosselmeyer had forced him to write Ahiru's descent into the Lake of Despair.

"Yeah, but what if the music-writing power is different?" Ahiru persisted. "What if it's getting hold of Autor so much that he really doesn't know what he's doing?"

Fakir's scowl deepened. "Or maybe the music-writing isn't different, but it's clouding his mind so much that he thinks he's doing what he wants," he mused. "He would still be responsible for inviting the power in." But if the Story was actually controlling him in whatever possible way, then Ahiru was right—Autor could not be held completely accountable for his mad behavior.

"We need to find out," Mytho said in concern. "Fakir, you don't think Drosselmeyer could be controlling him, do you?"

Fakir stiffened. "I broke his machine," he said. "He shouldn't be able to keep writing stories in this town. And even if he could, completely taking over someone was never his style. He seemed to prefer nudging us along, casually manipulating us without us knowing we were being manipulated."

"_How right you are, Fakir, my boy,"_ Drosselmeyer sneered. _"And how fascinating, that little Ahiru is starting to understand what's happening. But no matter how hard you try to struggle, you will never be able to break free of this tragedy! Your friend is far too ambitious and foolish. When he falls, he will surely drag all of you down with him!"_

Ahiru began to pace. "There has to be something we can do for Autor!" she said. "Maybe there's some books at the library that would help us!"

"I doubt it," Fakir growled. "I went through everything I could find when I was researching my own powers. I never saw anything about being able to write Stories into reality through music. And there's no way I'm going to ask around where the Bookmen might hear. If they find out about this, they'll try to stop Autor, even if music is not something they're involved with."

"Then we'll have to discover the answer on our own," Mytho said. "After school, Fakir, maybe you should try Writing."

Fakir did not have much hope, but he nodded. He would try anything he could. Whether Autor was grateful or not, Fakir would not abandon him to whatever force might be responsible for this.

He could not, anyway, for the world's sake.

He turned away, gripping his arms.

Ahiru blinked, walking around to face him. "Fakir?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Fakir retorted.

"It's something," Mytho said in concern.

Fakir shook his head. "It's like you said, Mytho. I just never expected that if we were in danger again, it would be because of someone who fought with us in the past," he said.

Ahiru's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Fakir. . . ." She embraced him from the side, resting her head on his shoulder.

For a moment he stiffened in surprise. Then in silence he brought an arm around her. He knew Ahiru thought of Autor as a friend.

His pride would not allow him to admit aloud that he felt the same.

"_Pride goes before a downfall,"_ Drosselmeyer said. _"But whose, I wonder? Your own or Autor's? Or both!"_ He grinned. _"The more the tragedy deepens, the more delicious it becomes."_

****

Autor sank onto the piano bench in the music room where he spent so much of his time between classes. His reflection in the smooth varnish was chalk-white. His hands were still shaking, but he placed them over the black-and-white keys, willing them to be steady.

Even having known Rue had returned, he had been completely unprepared for their meeting. She was still just as beautiful, just as magnificent as he had thought her to be on that day so long ago.

_But she didn't love you,_ the voice in his head told him. _Why should you even care?_

He slammed his hands on the piano keys in chords of noise. Why should he care? Why hadn't he been able to fully move on? Nothing would ever happen between them. He was not sure if a formal wedding ceremony had taken place yet between Rue and the Prince, but even if they were not married, they certainly intended to be. Rue did not love Autor.

He still did not know why she had taken him into the basement of that abandoned building. The most important factor, however, was that she had not been interested in any kind of relationship with him. The memory of her disbelieving and ridiculing laughter was still echoing through his mind.

Part of him had longed to meet her once more, to see if he would still feel so deeply for her or if the experience would bring a sense of closure. But now, after seeing her with Ahiru, he was just as confused as before. Perhaps moreso.

And Ahiru. . . . Ahiru had told him what he had not wanted to face, something that he was still trying to believe. He actually had threatened Fakir, as he thought and feared he had done. At least, Fakir had reported that to Ahiru, and Fakir would not have told a falsehood.

But why? Why would he have said that?

He leaned forward, running a hand into his hair. "What's happening to me?" he whispered.

_Nothing is happening to you,_ the voice returned. _Except that you're becoming greater and more powerful with each passing day. Fakir sees that and is jealous of you. He doesn't trust you. He's trying to hold you back._

Autor frowned, straightening up on the bench. Whether or not that was true, maybe he should start doing something about Kinkan Town right away. Yes, that was it. He would start composing a piece that would begin bringing the residents under his control, as he had done for other towns and lands. Then Fakir would see that this was right. This was what was meant to be.

He laid his fingers over the keys again, testing out opening notes. There, he liked that chord. He would start with that one.

A wicked smirk came over his features as he wrote one measure, then the next. This would just be a short piece, but just right to start exerting his power over Kinkan Town. Once he controlled Kinkan, he would branch out to more far-reaching places.

Fakir would not be able to stop him. No one would.

"_Oh, this is the first time you've composed one of your pieces in the music room, isn't it?"_ Drosselmeyer said. _"What makes the difference this time? Do you want people to hear you writing it, Autor, my boy? Well, if you're alright with it, you're either planning something even more devious or you don't quite know what you're planning at all! Either way, this is going to be fun. No, it will be terrible. Poor little Ahiru and the others."_


	4. Legato

**Notes: This and all future chapters will be dedicated to LunaSphere and her amazing story **_**This Pendent Heart**_**. It's because of her story that my drive and determination to get this story written and completed has increased.**

**Prompt #12 – **_**Legato (Slipping Away)**_

The scene at Kinkan Academy when Ahiru and the others arrived was enough to make all four of them stop and stare in shock. Students and teachers alike were wandering about, their eyes glazed and blank as they bore strange smiles on their faces. None of them seemed to pay the newcomers the slightest heed as they traveled here and there, as if in search of something they could never find.

Mytho and Rue were particularly alarmed. "This is exactly what happened back at the castle!" Mytho exclaimed, stepping aside to allow two students to pass. "Everyone in the court began going into these almost drug-induced states, searching for the composer of the mysterious music."

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "Then Autor is already at work again," he said.

At his side he clutched the satchel in which he kept his writing materials. He had taken to carrying them with him whenever he could, not knowing when they might be necessary. But he was concerned over how he would write a Story against Autor, if it was even possible. He had only ever been able to write about Ahiru, and how could he write a Story in which she was confronting Autor? She could not transform into Princess Tutu now. And he did not want to expose her any further to the dangers of Autor falling deeper into his madness, especially if she did not have any powers to protect against him.

"Maybe he's still close by!" Ahiru said. "Let's see if he's in the music building!" Without waiting for a reply she tore past, weaving around a dazed Malen and later, Freya, in the process. She stared at her friends with wide eyes. She wanted to stop and try to help them get out of their states, but if they could find Autor, maybe they could get him to break the spell over everyone. They had to hope so, anyway.

"Hey! Wait up!" Fakir called in frustration. He and the others quickly followed, disturbed as they passed countless trance-like students. By the time they caught up to Ahiru, she was already going inside the music building.

She only screeched to a halt when she arrived at the practice room Autor usually frequented. But then she stood in the half-open doorway, her shoulders slumping. The room was empty.

"He's not here," she called to Fakir and the others.

"The entire building seems empty," Rue frowned.

"Where could he be?!" Ahiru exclaimed in despair. She had thought sure they would find him in here, especially due to the state of everyone on the lawn. He had to have been at a piano to have caused this, after all.

"We should split up and search the grounds," Mytho said. "Rue and I will take this side. Fakir, you and Ahiru can check the other side. We'll meet back in a half-hour."

Fakir nodded, his expression darkening. Where really could Autor have gone? This did not make sense. "We should thoroughly check this building first," he said.

The others agreed, but their search failed to yield results. They exited the music building some time later, weary and worried and frustrated.

"Let's split up now," Fakir grumbled, rubbing his right eye. "If there's even any point. He's probably gone someplace we'll never find him."

"He acted like he was going to go to classes today!" Ahiru said, feeling helpless.

"And who's going to teach the class?" Fakir returned. "They're all walking around like the undead."

Ahiru shuddered at his comparison. "We should try to find a way to help them," she said.

Mytho shook his head. "I don't think there is a way, not without defeating Autor." He frowned. "Those in our court act like this until the music stops playing."

"But I don't even hear anything!" Ahiru cried.

"He's controlling them from a distance," Fakir said. "Maybe they only hear the music in their heads."

"We really heard it in our kingdom," Mytho said. "But strangely, we were never affected."

"Maybe you're building up resistance to weird things," Fakir said. Frowning at the vacant crowds he retracted, "Then again, these people should be building up resistance too."

"What if he's doing something different here?" Rue spoke. "Maybe he's written a piece of music that will keep them under his control even if he isn't currently playing anything."

Mytho's eyes widened. "That's possible," he said. "In fact, that's very likely the explanation. There probably really was music here before we came."

"_Excusez-moi, mon amis,_ but I perceive that you are all quite confused by the state of things here!"

Everyone jumped a mile at the voice. As they turned, Ahiru's mouth dropped open. Femio, riding on his bull, was approaching them.

Fakir grunted. "Just who we don't need," he muttered in frustration. The eccentric and egotistic student was the last person he wanted to see right now.

"Wait a minute, Fakir," Mytho said, resting his hand on Fakir's arm. "He's not under the spell. We should find out why."

"He probably wasn't here, just like we weren't," Fakir said.

The bull stopped as it drew nigh. Femio leaped off, landing gracefully on the ground next to them. In his hand he twirled a rose.

"It is truly a gift from above to be in the presence of two such beautiful ladies," he said, looking from Ahiru to Rue. Ahiru went red and stammered, still not knowing exactly what to say to the romancing boy. Rue, on the other hand, just gave a coy smile.

"You're right about us being confused," she said. "Maybe you can help enlighten us."

"I will do all that I can, _mademoiselle,_" Femio said.

Annoyed, Fakir crossed his arms. "Why aren't you in a trance like these other people?" he asked.

"A trance?" Femio repeated indignantly. "No trance could hold the likes of me, one who is qualified to be a true prince." But he frowned as the rose petals that accompanied his words were not forthcoming. His valet was nowhere in sight.

"Um, were you here when it happened, Femio?" Ahiru asked.

"I most certainly was, _mon cherie,_" Femio said.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Mytho queried.

Femio looked at Mytho in distaste, as if suddenly realizing he was there. "Are you still leading young girls' hearts astray with your false love, Mytho?" he said, ignoring the question.

Mytho flinched, horrible memories of a time that still plagued him coming to the forefront of his mind. He looked helpless, unsure at all of how to reply.

Rue came to his rescue. "We're not here to talk about Mytho," she said, her tone perfectly smooth.

Femio looked to her, determining in an instant that she was still Mytho's girl from her actions—and from the slightly frosty look she was giving him. "Of course, _mademoiselle,_" he said.

He cleared his throat. "What happened was that shortly before the first bell rang, a most interesting piece of music began floating across the grounds," he said. "Almost everyone who heard it was immediately induced by its, and its composer's, mystery. And they began to wander like this." He sighed. "I am truly afraid that they are pursuing yet another false love.

"They always turn to these false loves!" he berated now. "Truly, it would not happen if I did not have such drastic shortcomings!"

Everyone stepped back as he raised his arms to the sky, remembering all too well what was going to come next. "Oh Heaven, I beseech thee, punish this sinner!" Femio cried.

But this time nothing happened. The bull lowed, its tail swishing. The others, who had braced themselves for the assault, now began to relax with some hesitance.

Femio's shoulders slumped. "It just isn't the same without Montand," he bemoaned.

"Was he affected too?" Fakir asked.

"Unfortunately, yes," Femio sighed, slumping onto a stone bench. "I couldn't do a thing! My sins are too numerous to even begin to count." He ran his hands into his hair. "And now I can't even atone for them!"

Ahiru shifted in discomfort before finally going over and sitting beside him. "It'll be okay, Femio," she said. "We'll break the spell!"

He looked over at her. "Really?" he said.

"Yeah!" Ahiru said. "Of course. And then everyone will go back to normal."

"Oh! But I won't have done anything, sinful man that I am!" Femio wailed. He got up, his fingers now digging right into his scalp. "I'm too treacherous for words!"

"Maybe you can do something," Rue said, ignoring his outburst. "Have you seen one of the music students around? He's around Fakir's height and wears glasses." She gave Femio a thoughtful look. "His hair is a little darker than yours."

"Him?" Femio sniffed. "What do you want with him, _mademoiselle_? He is very unfriendly."

"It doesn't matter why we want him," Fakir growled. "Have you seen him or not?"

Femio regarded him in annoyance. "There is no need to lose your temper, Fakir," he said. "And _non,_ I have not seen him. Have you tried the library?"

"He hasn't been there lately," Fakir said.

"But anything's worth a try," Ahiru put in. "We should look, anyway!" She hopped up from the bench. "That's on our side of the grounds," she added, looking to Fakir. "Let's go!"

Femio sighed. "If you really need to find him so badly, perhaps I can be of assistance," he said.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Fakir grumbled. What if Femio happened to be unlucky enough to actually find Autor? If Autor was in an ill mood, or switching back and forth as Ahiru and Rue had described, he might even harm Femio. Or, if Femio realized Autor was responsible for the spell, _he_ might hurt _him_—though that sounded highly unlikely. Femio did not seem the type. But his bizarre antics could be unpredictable, Fakir supposed.

"How about if you find him, just try to detain him until we can come?" Mytho said. "Though I fear that may be difficult. . . ."

"I am no stranger to difficulties!" Femio said.

"Okay," Fakir grudgingly conceded. "Why don't you look around the middle? Meet us back here in thirty minutes."

"I am at your service," Femio said, though he was gazing at Ahiru and Rue as he said this. Climbing back on his bull, he shouted a command and the animal turned and lumbered off.

Ahiru sighed. "That was weird," she said. "But maybe it will help to have someone else looking too!"

"When that someone else is Femio, it's debatable," Fakir growled.

"Now, Fakir," Mytho said with a slight smile of both amusement and reproach, "let's give him a chance."

"We're doing that, aren't we?" Fakir returned. He walked towards the right. "We have a lot of places to search. We should start."

Ahiru hurried after him, staring in dread and horror as the zombie-like people as they went past. Piké and Lilie, she noticed, had so far not been among them at all. Had they not been on campus, either? But it would not be like them to be so late. They had probably been affected too and just had not been discovered yet.

She clenched an agonized fist as she and Fakir arrived at and began searching through the deathly quiet library. Why had Autor done this? They had to find him and set it right. And Ahiru would not give up until he was his old self, too.

****

Autor hid himself behind a support beam at the gazebo, his hands trembling and his eyes wide. He had done it. He had brought nearly everyone at the academy under his control. And though he had known about what he was doing in other lands, this was the first he had physically seen any of the fruits of his labors.

It was _thrilling,_ wasn't it, to walk amongst them and know that he had caused such a thing, that just by playing notes on the piano he had exercised so much power!

But _No,_ he protested in his mind. _This was not what he had wanted._ How would making mindless dolls out of everyone at the academy help him better the world?

He drew his shaking hands up to his eye level. _He_ had done this. With his own hands and the dream he had carried since he was a small boy, _he_ had done it.

_I could still turn back,_ he said to himself. _I could reverse the music's effects and go back to my original design._

_But this __**is**__ your original design,_ the other voice replied. _Sacrifices have to be made, don't they? Eventually they will be released, when all your compositions are complete and the world falls at your feet. Then they will see that after all you have done for them, you are the only one qualified to lead the people of this planet!_

_More like what I've done __**to**__ them,_ Autor thought bitterly.

He took off his glasses, running a hand over his eyes. How had he come to this?

"_How, you ask?"_ Drosselmeyer grinned. _"It's simple, Autor, my boy. You crave it, deep down. You want power and recognition so much that you're willing to do terrible things to get it. And the more you struggle and try to pursue this goal of yours, the more this other you will consume you, guided by the Story itself. Oh, Story-Spinning is such a dangerous thing. You always thought you knew just how dangerous. But did you? Did you at all?"_ He laughed. _"It's bringing out your worst traits, the ones you were afraid of and tried to hide even from yourself. But you can only hide from yourself for so long!"_ He spread his arms wide. _"Now, keep going. Show me this excellent tragedy you have been Spinning with your own hands!"_

Uzura, previously unseen in the shadows, now came forward, her blue eyes wide as she stared into the picture displayed in the gear. _"What's wrong with the weird Autor zura?"_ she asked in concern.

"_He's gotten himself into quite the predicament,"_ Drosselmeyer sneered. _"Now, let's see if he can possibly extricate himself. Only he won't; he'll only keep falling deeper and deeper into this mess until there's nothing left of the boy little Ahiru and the others knew."_

"_Then he's changing zura?"_ Uzura watched as Autor replaced his glasses and pushed himself away from the support beam. With a last glance over his shoulder, he fled the gazebo and vanished into the trees.

"_Yes, he's changing very much,"_ Drosselmeyer said. _"It's wonderful."_

Uzura frowned. She did not like seeing the weird Autor look so upset. It was not wonderful at all! She turned, retracing her steps to her previous location.

Not noticing, Drosselmeyer continued to view the scenes with relish. _"So, you made your choice, Autor, my boy,"_ he commented as Autor ran through the dense trees. _"You won't repair what you have done. You're just going to keep running. And where will you run except back to a piano? Yes, you have set this tragedy in motion. There's no course now other than the one you have taken. How delightful. Yes, how delightful indeed."_

****

Ahiru's shoulders were slumped as she and Fakir headed back to the appointed meeting place thirty minutes later. Autor was simply nowhere to be found. The fruitless search had left her drained and discouraged.

Looking at her, Fakir gave a slight smile of love and amusement and took pity. "Maybe Mytho and Rue found him," he suggested.

But Ahiru sighed, only perking up a slight bit. "Maybe," she said without real confidence.

She looked up at him. "Fakir, what are we going to do?" she said despairingly. "If we can't find Autor, or even if we can and he won't do anything about this, then we have to do something else to get everyone back to normal!"

Fakir looked ahead, his expression sobering. "I haven't tried writing yet," he said. "But there's still a problem."

She blinked at him. "What's that?"

"Even if I can challenge him despite us using different methods, I've only been able to write Stories about you." Fakir glanced to her, watching her eyes widen. "I'd have to write something where you bring the people back to themselves. And you're no longer Princess Tutu."

Ahiru frowned, glowering at the ground as if it was responsible for this dilemma. But then she straightened, looking at Fakir with renewed determination. "Then write something where I'm able to be Princess Tutu again!" she said.

Fakir blew out his breath in frustration. "It's not that simple," he said. "Remember, you could only become her when you used Mytho's heart shard of Hope. Princess Tutu's existence is bound up in that heart shard. If I try to write a Story where you become her again, I'm afraid of what it might do to Mytho."

Ahiru stared at him, her eyes growing even wider than before. Fakir was right; that was out of the question. And they could not mention it around Mytho. Knowing how selfless he was, he might agree to take the risk if it came to that. But neither Ahiru or Fakir wanted to repeat the tragedy that had came about when Mytho had sealed away the Monster Raven. And Ahiru was sure that Rue would flat-out refuse to allow it.

She turned her attention to the music building as they drew closer. Mytho and Rue were already there, talking quietly about something. And judging from the rumbling of the ground, Femio was approaching on his bull.

"I have not found him, _mon amis!_" the flamboyant student called as they rounded a corner.

"Nor have we," Mytho sighed. "And it looks like your luck was the same, Fakir," he added, glancing over at the others.

Ahiru sank onto the same stone bench that Femio had previously occupied. "And everyone's still acting so creepy," she said. "What do we do now?"

In some way, she supposed, she felt even more helpless than when they had been under Drosselmeyer's Story. At least then, she had been able to transform into Princess Tutu to do good. But now they were all at a standstill, pawns in Autor's Story. And when they could not even find him, there was no way to try to talk him out of this.

Was there?

"Hey!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

Everyone leaped a mile. "What is it?!" Fakir frowned, wondering what had suddenly got her so energetic.

"Drosselmeyer could always hear us, right?" Ahiru said hopefully. "He was always watching. What if Autor can hear us too? Maybe we should just try to talk to him right here and now!"

Rue looked surprised. "But couldn't Drosselmeyer only hear us because of his machine?" she said.

Fakir shook his head. "Partially, but I think it was also because he was writing about us," he said. "Or maybe just because he's dead. When I was writing the end of his Story, I could hear everything that was happening. And yet the ending wasn't coming from me; the Story was really writing itself through me. This is different."

"What if it isn't?" Ahiru returned, still determined to give Autor the benefit of a doubt. "Maybe this Story is writing itself through Autor and that's why he's acting so weird!"

Fakir just sighed. ". . . Anything's worth a try, I guess," he conceded at last. "But it's going to look ridiculous for you to call to him right here."

"So? No one's going to care!" Ahiru looked to the distant trees on the grounds and raised her voice. "Autor, we know you're out there! Please stop this and change everybody back! This isn't the real you!"

"_That's where you're wrong, little Ahiru,"_ Drosselmeyer smirked. _"This is indeed the real Autor, for one's darkness is just as real as one's light."_

Femio stood by, bewildered. "I confess I don't understand what is going on here," he said. "Why are we calling to him when he is clearly not around? And what is this talk of stories?"

Fakir massaged his eyes. "Nevermind," he said. The thought of taking Femio into their confidence was a nightmare. He did not want this nut to know the details of everything that had been and now was taking place.

But Femio was not willing to back down. "If I am going to help you, I need to know exactly what we are dealing with!" he said. "And I will help you, because not only do I wish to not go against my honor when trouble is at hand, I wish to save Montand and everyone who has been caught in this terrible web of deceit!"

Mytho looked back and forth between him and Fakir. "Well, this is a predicament, isn't it," he mused to Rue, who frowned and crossed her arms.

"In some way, he could be useful," she said. "After all, he's resisted Autor's spell, which is more than can be said about these others. But somehow I don't think he would believe it if we told him the truth about the Stories. Yet keeping him in the dark could have unfortunate consequences too."

"Let's forget about it for now," Fakir said. "Autor couldn't have gotten far. We should spread out more and keep looking."

Still not willing to give up on her idea, Ahiru waited desperately for any indication that Autor had heard her plea. But the only sounds were the footsteps of the dazed students and faculty and the wind in the trees. She sighed, her shoulders drooping.

"Yeah," she said. "Let's keep looking."

"And what about me?" Femio said in indignation.

"If you want to help, keep looking for Autor," Fakir said. "But if you find him at a piano, be careful."

"A piano?" Femio's eyes widened in his sudden realization. "Then it is _he_ who has put everyone under this abominable spell! I should have known. I always did think something wasn't quite right about him!"

"He's not himself!" Ahiru exclaimed. "He's a good person, he really is!"

Femio gave a long, drawn-out sigh. "If you say so, _mon cherie,_" he said. But from the way his lavender eyes flickered, he did not believe it.

****

Ahiru and Fakir were half-right. Autor could hear the people in his Stories, but only if he was currently playing a piano—and even then, not always. At the moment, he was slipping through the unlocked back door of an abandoned instrument store, then shutting and locking it behind him. He would be discovered if he went home right now, and he was in too much of a state of turmoil to think of dealing with anyone.

After dusting off a bench in the very back, he sank onto it and gazed with blank eyes at the piano in front of him. Maybe if he played for a while he would feel better. It had always given him a feeling of tranquility in the past. That was exactly what he needed now.

He lifted the lid with care, staring down at the preserved keys. Hesitantly he pressed one, frowning as an out-of-tune sound echoed through the room. It was not as bad as it could be, he supposed, considering that this store had been vacant for Heaven knew how long. But he was a perfectionist. And years before, he had taught himself how to tune a piano. He refused to play one that did not sound right to his well-trained ears.

With a sigh he got up to look for the proper tools.

"_And what will you play when you're ready?"_ Drosselmeyer mused, observing him work. _"An old, familiar standard? Or will you find yourself writing a completely new song, one that will draw more of this poor town into your clutches?"_ He rocked in his chair. _"Tell me a story, Autor, my boy. A story wrought with suffering and anguish that does not end happily for anyone, including you!"_

At last Autor was done with the tuning and sat at the piano again. Yes, now the notes were smooth and flowing and in perfect harmony. He played for a while, losing himself in the work of the great composers of the past. And somehow, almost without him fully realizing, he switched to something else, something unfamiliar that poured from his mind to his heart and into his fingertips. His lips pulled back in a mad smirk as he played.

_Come to me, Kinkan,_ he said in the music's notes and chords. _Come to me and only me._

And Drosselmeyer laughed in sickening delight to see the boy with a good heart fall further into his inner darkness.


	5. A Capella

**Notes: Some of Fakir's thoughts in the first scene may sound similar to something he thinks in chapter 17 of LunaSphere's story **_**This Pendent Heart**_**, but I came up with the concept independent of her fic, and before I'd ever read it. I also think this chapter gives off hints of both **_**The Phantom of the Opera**_** and **_**Beauty and the Beast**_**. Both are unintentional.**

**Prompt #1 – A Capella **_**(Alone)**_

Autor was not found the next day, or the next, or for an entire week of days. And with each day that passed, more people throughout Kinkan and the whole world fell under the power of his music. Though they went around town each day in the hopes that something had changed for the better, it never did. Ahiru was overwhelmed and heartsick, as she knew the others were as well.

Fakir was growing tense and bitter over the whole mess. She often found he had shut himself up in his attic room, and amid the frustrated curses she could sometimes hear, she discerned that he was trying and failing to write a Story that would bring the problem under control and save Autor.

"_I know you're worried about him, Fakir,"_ she had told him one night after dinner.

He had rubbed at his eyes, exhausted. _"I used to think we were comrades,"_ he had said. _"But I was just fooling myself. Autor never really cared. And before you bring it up, the only reason he saved my life at the end of Drosselmeyer's Story was because he knew I was the only one who could write it. He saved me so I could try to ensure a happy ending for everyone."_

Ahiru's eyes had filled with tears. _"I don't believe that,"_ she had replied. _"Sure, that was probably part of it, but he cared about __**you,**__ Fakir."_

Fakir had just snorted. _"I took away what he considered to be his only purpose in life,"_ he had said. _"Why should he care what happened to me?"_

Ahiru had leaned across the table, looking firmly at Fakir. _"Because that's the kind of person he is,"_ she had said.

Many conflicted emotions had flitted through Fakir's eyes. He had believed that once, but seeing Autor as he was now made him doubt everything.

Ahiru could not help doubting herself sometimes. But when the unpleasant thoughts began to creep into her mind, she tried to push them away with the memories of how Autor had used to be—helpful and kind deep down, in spite of the arrogant way he had usually behaved. She clung to those memories, praying that there was still a way to bring that Autor back.

****

It was two days after that conversation when she and the others arrived for their daily inspection of the academy only to discover something shocking. The students and teachers were walking around the grounds, just as before, but now their eyes were clear. They were talking and laughing as if nothing had ever been wrong.

Ahiru could only stop and stare, her mouth hanging open. "They're okay!" she gasped. "Did Autor release them?!"

"It certainly looks that way," Mytho said, his speech slow and cautious. In spite of how things appeared, he did not trust the seeming return to normalcy. Something did not feel right.

Fakir agreed, tensing as Piké and Lilie noticed them and headed their way. Piké was holding an envelope as she ran, excited about something.

"Ahiru!" the girls called.

Still stunned from seeing everyone animated, Ahiru only managed a mechanical half-wave. Then the duo was glomping her, Piké still displaying the letter above her head.

"Oh, Ahiru! We have wonderful news!" Lilie exclaimed.

Piké nodded with enthusiasm. "This letter was just brought today from the academy's mysterious benefactor!" she said.

Ahiru pulled back, dazed from the hearty glomp as well as the news. "What mysterious benefactor?" she said in amazement.

Fakir's eyes narrowed. This was news to him, too. Mytho and Rue looked likewise puzzled.

Lilie just patted Ahiru on the head. "Oh, you're so cute when you're clueless!" she said.

"Our mysterious benefactor has been sponsoring our programs for ages now!" Piké said. "He started by improving the library, then went on to the music and ballet divisions!"

"Autor," Fakir muttered under his breath.

Ahiru swallowed hard. "Oh. . . . Well, that's . . . nice. . . ." She blinked. "Why do you have the letter, Piké?"

"We asked for permission to deliver it," Piké said, smiling big with her announcement. She stepped back, looking to the surprised Rue. "It's for you, Miss Rue!"

"Me?" Rue took the envelope, her thoughts racing. If it was from the mysterious benefactor, who must be Autor, what could it possibly say?

"We kind of heard what was in it, because the benefactor's representative was talking with the administrator," Piké admitted. "But we won't say! We'll let you see for yourself, Miss Rue."

Mytho glanced at Rue, who had opened the flap and was removing a set of papers. "What is it?" he asked.

Rue's expression only became more surprised as she read over the contents of the first page. "Basically, this benefactor is putting together a ballet he's been writing," she said. "He wants me to be in it." She thumbed through the other sheets. "The rest is a contract."

"That's why his representative was talking to the administrator," Lilie said dreamily. "To see if that was alright with the school! Of course the answer was Yes!"

Rue folded the letter. "Thank you for delivering this," she said.

"Of course, Miss Rue!" Piké said. "And we should hurry; we'll be late for class!"

Ahiru winced. "I'll be right there," she said. "Just go on ahead."

"I hope you come late!" Lilie squealed with a wave. "The teacher will be so angry, he'll probably give you cleaning duties again!"

Fakir grunted as he watched them go. "I don't know what you see in them," he said to Ahiru. "At least in her."

Ahiru shrugged and gave an uneasy chuckle. "Well . . . they _have_ been my friends," she said. "I mean . . . Drosselmeyer wrote it that way, but then I really ended up thinking of them as friends. Lilie has her good points, too. . . .

"Hey, what are you going to do about the ballet, Rue?" she asked, looking to the older girl.

Rue glanced over the letter's contents again. "If this actually is from Autor, it's strange that he would give me an opening like this to see him," she said. "We shouldn't pass up the chance."

"You mean to accept then," Mytho said.

Rue nodded. "We need to investigate," she said. "This must be Autor's doing; his sponsoring of the school sounds like his pattern, judging from what happened in our kingdom. And I don't remember the academy having a mysterious benefactor before."

"It hasn't," Fakir said, his tone flat.

"There's an address here," Rue noted. "I'll go after afternoon classes." She gave Mytho a meaningful look. "And I should go alone, since I was the only one invited. I might have a better chance of learning something."

"Of course," Mytho said, though he looked concerned. "But be careful, Rue."

Ahiru was more positive. "Something really happened to Autor when he saw you before, Rue!" she declared. "If anyone can get through to him, I'm sure it's you!"

"Maybe," Rue said, keeping her voice as neutral as she could. "But I couldn't keep his personality from shifting." And that bothered her, though she did not fully understand why. Had she really thought she would have success where the others had failed, because of Autor's feelings for her? Or was it something else?

Fakir glanced at his watch. "You really will be put on cleaning duty if you don't hurry," he said to Ahiru.

Her eyes widened in horror. "I'll see all of you later!" she exclaimed with a wild wave, tearing across the sidewalk with enough speed to create an actual breeze.

Mytho chuckled quietly with a fond smile.

Fakir deadpanned as the nearby bushes and his hair blew about. "We should go too," he said, looking to Mytho and Rue.

Mytho nodded. It was going to be a long day, both during school hours and afterwards.

****

At the end of the day's classes, Rue returned to Charon's to change into casual clothes. She also packed her leotard and toe shoes in a small bag, just in case she would need to give a demonstration or dance through a scene. Then, taking the letter from where she had placed it on a borrowed table, she headed out once more.

The address was across town and led her to what had once been an abandoned building. She could not recall what had been there before, but as she approached it in the late afternoon light, a marquee out front proclaimed it the Kinkan Town Theatre and Performing Arts Center.

She sighed, pulling open the glass door. It had been difficult for her to concentrate on her classes that day, which had prompted concern from the teachers since it was unusual for her. But considering the task that she would very likely be accepting, it was not unusual today.

What would she say to Autor when she met him? Ask why he was doing this? Why he wanted her to be part of it? No, she surely knew that, at least. Or she thought she did. Actually, it would depend on his reasons for doing this, wouldn't it? He had occasionally been asked to accompany the ballet students on the piano, but had never shown much, if any, interest in the art itself. Why would he suddenly decide to compose a ballet?

Her eyes widened in surprised shock to see someone quite different from whom she had expected standing in the entryway. "Miss Rue, from Kinkan Academy?" A short, elderly man with an eerie smile looked up at her.

"Y-yes," she stammered. "I came about this invitation to perform in a new ballet." She held up the envelope.

"Very good," the man said. "I am handling all of the business affairs for the composer."

Rue frowned. "I was expecting to speak with him in person," she said.

"He speaks with no one," was the smooth reply. "I was asked to give you the tour and all possible information and then allow you to make your decision on whether or not you wish to be involved in the production."

Rue's expression darkened further. "Alright then," she consented. Was Autor doing this on purpose, hoping to further force her hand so that she would join in the hopes of someday being able to catch him? Was he just trying to keep her close to him? What was going _on?_

Taking no heed of her storm cloud visage, the old man led her down a short, well-carpeted hallway. "The complete score hasn't yet been released," he mused. "If you agree to join the company, you will rehearse for each scene as it is finished."

"That's unheard-of," Rue said. And the news made her stomach drop. What, exactly, would she be dancing to? More of Autor's world-conquering songs? Would the very element of her performance bring something treacherous into being?

But no, surely not. It seemed to be the music alone that wrote Stories, whether or not anyone was dancing to it.

"He is an eccentric one," the man replied, again with the unsettling smile.

He pushed open one side of a set of heavy wooden double-doors. "This is the theatre, where you will rehearse and eventually perform in front of an audience," he said.

Rue peered inside. It was certainly impressive, from the rows of red padded chairs to the fancy, overhanging balcony to the large orchestra pit and the well-lit stage. It looked like theatres from large cities that she had only seen depicted in books and magazines. It was certainly a place such as where she imagined Autor would have dreamed of performing his music.

The man stepped into the room, indicating for her to come with him. "The dressing rooms are backstage," he said. "They are very well-furnished." Leading her to the left side of the stage, he went up the steps and pushed the heavy curtain aside. Rue followed, going past him to the backstage area. Noticing one dressing room door open, she stepped closer for a better look.

He was right about it being well-furnished. There were soft couches and chairs, as well as a large mirror and makeup table and several racks of costumes.

She turned away, her lips pursed in an unreadable smile. "And I thought this building was vacant only several days ago," she said.

An unconcerned shrug. "He was merely keeping secret that he was getting it ready," her host said. "He isn't the type who wishes for crowds to see him working."

"He just wants them to see the finished product," Rue concluded.

"Yes." The man leaned against a table backstage, crossing his arms. "There have been other ballet dancers hired already. They will be meeting here tonight to test one of the completed scenes."

"I see." Rue looked to him steadily. "And there isn't any chance of the composer coming to watch their performances?"

"Oh, he will be watching," was the reply. "He just won't let anyone see that he is doing it."

Rue nodded. "Would it be possible to examine the scene before I decide what to do?" she asked. "I don't like signing on without knowing what's expected of me."

"Of course you may." The man gave a nonchalant gesture. "He especially told me to allow you however much time you need to decide . . . within reason, of course. He was very adamant about wanting you to participate."

"What time will the other dancers arrive?" Rue asked.

He glanced at the wall clock. "It won't be long now," he said. "They should start to arrive within thirty to forty-five minutes. That will give us enough time to complete the tour first."

"Then we should keep going," Rue said, her tone smooth and betraying none of her inner feelings. She stepped away from the dressing room door, her shoes gently resounding over the hollow wooden floor.

As the two of them continued their journey backstage, another figure turned away from a tinted window, half-hidden in the shadows behind a black curtain. "It's all falling into place now," he said quietly to no one in particular. "She'll be present at the dawning of the new world."

"_I can't believe you're associating with those repugnant filth,"_ Drosselmeyer growled from his dimension. But then he sneered. _"Of course, it was terribly clever and treacherous of you, Autor, my boy. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, eh? As long they are under your spell, they will serve you and not consider cutting off your hands and effectively ending your reign. But . . ."_ He paused as his wicked grin widened. _"You'd better hope they __**stay**__ under your spell! You never can tell with Stories, especially these days."_

****

He watched as she danced, staying concealed behind a different window that overlooked the front of the stage from high above. The others had all been on the stage at first, but then had paused, moving to either side to allow _her_ to enter. She was the prima donna, after all. He would not have it any other way. Now, though all the ballerinas were swirling across the stage, he could only watch _her._

"Rue," he whispered, placing his hand on the one-way glass. She did not love him, yet still she had come. Naturally she was certain he was behind the invitation. And of course, she was only here in the hopes of finding a way to stop him. For the moment, however, such technicalities did not matter. She was out there, so close and so far, as she had always been.

This had really been a brilliant plan to bring her near him once more. Ballet was not an interest of his, unless she was the one performing it. During his long years of watching and loving her from afar, he had studied ballet just to try to learn more about her world. He knew the techniques well enough now that he had been able to put this idea together. Originally he had considered an opera, or even an opera with ballet, for his music's public debut. But in the end he had known it could only be ballet all the way through, because of her.

The rehearsal ended to mostly positive feedback. The ballerinas approved of the scene and the choreography. One by one, they all departed, until only Rue and his _business manager_ remained.

That old fool. He had no idea what he was even doing. Autor considered himself quite brilliant for getting the idea to have the Bookmen work for him. They had been growing close to determining that something bizarre was happening in Kinkan Town, and of course, that simply could not be allowed. It was safest this way.

His lips turned up in a satisfied smirk as Rue brought out the contract. After looking it over, as she had done several times before the performance, she laid it on the nearest table and took a pen, signing her beautiful name on the proper line.

He had known she would.

_Well,_ said the voice in his head, _now you have her right where you want her. But you know that if things get too intense with her trying to stop you, you'll have to end the situation. For good._

He froze, the color draining from his face. What? That had not been part of his plan at all. He would never, _could_ never . . . !

_You threatened Fakir and meant it. Why not her? If you can't consent to that, you're weak. A weak man will never reign over this world._

He sank into a chair, his fingers digging into his scalp. "I didn't mean it with Fakir," he gasped. "I couldn't have meant it. And I won't hurt Rue!"

_You told him you meant it._

What was that he could see out of the corner of his eye? He looked up, shaking. Then his mouth dropped open in shock and disbelief. A translucent image of himself was standing in front of him, cruelly smirking as it adjusted its glasses.

His lips parted as he fought to find words. "Who . . . what . . ."

"I'm you," the spectre answered. "The you that was awakened by the Story. The you that _is_ the Story. The true you." It stepped forward, reaching out a transparent hand to the horrified boy.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Autor cried. Trying to leap up from the chair, he instead knocked it and himself backwards to the floor. And the figure was still coming over to him. He scrambled away, his eyes wide in sheer terror. "Stay away from me!"

"But you've accepted and listened to me all this time," was the smirking reply. "Even if the Story dulled your senses so you didn't realize."

"No!" Autor shook his head, his glasses slipping down his nose. "That isn't true!"

"Why are you so afraid of me?" The phantom stopped, looking down at its other self. "Why have you always been afraid? We could have worked together years ago to bring this about."

Autor stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping over the chair in the process. Coherent speech would not come. "I . . . I . . ."

The transparent form took the chance to float over and embrace him in its chilled arms. "You're actually quite pathetic," it said. "You always claimed to not fear power, but that's what I am—the side of you that craves power so much that you will do anything to have it."

Autor trembled. But even though he was being held by only a . . . well, he was not sure _what_ it was, only that it should not be able to keep him rooted to the spot. Yet it could and was; it was as if the part of his brain that knew how to send signals to move had suddenly frozen. He could not budge. The spectre's touch was becoming colder with each passing second.

"Just remember," the phantom said, leaning over to whisper in Autor's ear, "you can't get rid of me. I am you, whether you're willing to accept it or not. And the Story makes me stronger. It makes _you_ stronger. Never forget, Autor, that's what you want. Even if you deny it to yourself, even if you fight against my guidance, it is always what you want. Because deep down, you know the truth. You know that I am the true you. You know that your heart is black."

With that the apparition became a dark orb, easing itself back into the left side of the boy's chest. The moment it was inside, the ability to move returned. Autor was completely ashen. His legs gave out, sending him to the floor in a crumpled heap.

****

When Autor regained consciousness he was still on the floor, having fallen halfway onto the toppled chair. For a moment he lay where he had collapsed, his clouded mind bewildered and stunned. What on earth was he doing down there? Had he fallen backwards in the chair and rendered himself senseless? That seemed unlikely; his head was not hurting.

He pulled himself upright, sitting on the backrest of the chair. The last thing he remembered was Rue signing the contract. Yes, that was what he had predicted and wanted to happen. She would be close to him, just like the Bookmen. They were all his enemies now. He had to make sure none of them stepped out of line. Rue could not be controlled by his music, as the Bookmen were, but she was still a marionette all the same. If she made one attempt to try to stop him, or tried to call Fakir and the others in on it, she would regret it dearly.

After all, she had betrayed him. She had betrayed his deep and sincere feelings. And he would have none of it. He would feel no pity, no mercy, towards the girl who had thrown his words in his face and laughed at him. If she trusted him enough to believe that she was safe around him, she was wrong. He was the most dangerous person she could have left herself with.

The knock at the door startled him back to the present. "What is it?" he demanded.

The wooden slab opened a crack. "I have come with a request from the young lady Rue, Master," was the reply.

Autor sneered. It felt so good, to hear the Bookmen's leader address him as such. He had made such a mockery out of the Bookmen's entire existence by having them blindly follow a new kind of Story-Spinner.

He got up, bringing the chair with him in one motion. "And she wants to see me, is that correct?" he said as he set it on all four legs.

"That would be the request, Master."

"Tell her it's denied." Autor pushed his glasses up as they slid down his nose. "None of the performers are allowed to speak with me. You know that."

"I already informed her of the rules, but she asked again."

Autor smirked. "She would," he said. "She doesn't give up. Let's show her that not everyone will give in after being asked a few times. I have no intention of altering my will. She had no interest in seeing me when all I wanted was to see her. I will not honor her request now."

The old man nodded. "Should I send her away, then?"

"Yes. She should be getting back." Autor half-turned, his arms crossed. "And I trust that there will be no need to bother me with any more of her requests. You have the authority to deny them yourself."

"Very well, Master."

The door closed. But as it clicked into place, Autor's eyes flickered.

"What . . . what was I just saying?" he gasped. Trembling, he stared down at his hands. "What was I _thinking?_ I . . . I know I don't want to hurt Rue. I don't want any kind of revenge on her for her rejection of me!"

Or had he thought it, somewhere deep in his heart? Had he been so hurt he had been angry, at least? Maybe he had never wanted to harm her, but he had been upset that she had not even given him a chance.

No, he had always known he had never had a chance with someone like her. Yet when she had found him and taken him with her to that old building, he had allowed himself a spark of hope.

He leaned forward, clasping his hands as he stared at the floor. "I want power, it's true," he whispered. "But do I really want it at such a price?"

"_Bravo. Bravo!"_ An eerie clapping filled Drosselmeyer's dimension. He grinned in sadistic glee. _"You're having such a battle over which side of yourself will win out. And no matter how you try, you'll never break free from it, because the Story itself wishes to take you down this dark path. You invited the power in and now it's seizing control of you, a little bit at a time. This good side of you is too weak to withstand both your darkest dreams and desires and the way the Story is twisting and expanding on them. Soon you will be consumed by them both. And when that happens . . ."_ He gnashed his teeth. _"You will personally try to be rid of Rue and the rest."_


	6. Ostinato

**Prompt: #6 - **_**Ostinato (Stubborn)**_

As the weeks went by, Autor observed each rehearsal with care. He played the selections for most of them, though he remained concealed and had the music piped into the theatre via a sound system. The ballerinas and danseurs were unconcerned. Despite finding it all very strange, they were intrigued by the innovative music and choreography and were willing to accept the composer's eccentricities just to be involved in the production. Autor had trusted they would feel that way, and even if they had not, he could have easily bent their minds to his will with another of his works.

Rue, of course, would have none of it. She was always tense, as if expecting something to go wrong even as they danced. The truth, Autor mused to himself, was that nothing was going wrong at all; with each piece rehearsed, something else went right. The world was falling under his command. And when he wrote the final piece for his ballet and had the entire work performed in front of an audience, that would seal it all.

He still struggled against the darker thoughts that came to him—thoughts of Rue's and the other's eventual fates should they rise up against him—and he was sure they would. But he did not want to harm them at all; he wanted to bring them with him into his new world, to let them see how much better it was, and for them to at last understand and support him. Still, the times when his mind was clear enough to even think such things were growing fewer. The Story was still carefully warping his darkest feelings, twisting them into a monstrosity far beyond what he was even capable of at his very worst. By overestimating his abilities and underestimating the pull of the Story, he had fallen into a deadly trap.

"_You're suffering, Autor, my boy,"_ Drosselmeyer remarked with a cruel sneer. _"And yet your mind is too dulled by the Story to understand why. Even if you could fight your way through the fog hanging heavily over you, it would be too late. The Story will never let you go now. The only road for you to take is the one that will lead to a glorious tragedy, where no one is saved and all ends in sorrow."_

And the more Uzura watched, the more she could not bear it. She had made dear friends in Kinkan Town. She wanted to go to them, to Autor, and find some way to help him break free of what the Story was doing to him. But the only way she could go would be if Drosselmeyer decided to interfere in the current Story, which he had no intention of doing. And even if he wanted to, his machine in Kinkan Town had been broken. He had no control over the people any longer.

"_I don't like seeing him like this zura,"_ she said one day. _"He was weird, but nice zura."_

And Drosselmeyer sighed; having a puppet with a heart and emotions really was quite an inconvenience!

"_It's his own fault, Uzura,"_ he said. _"He's brought himself to this miserable stage. Now he must remain until the curtain falls."_

"_I don't want the curtain to fall zura!"_ Uzura retorted.

But there was nothing to do but watch and wait for whatever was to come.

****

Autor was indeed suffering. He was bent forward over his desk, a hand gripping his forehead as the thoughts of both sides of his personality and of the Story itself went through his mind. They were all coming at once, and somehow he had to listen to them all, but it was so difficult. Which one should he choose as correct in the end? Which voice actually was the real him? He did not even know anymore.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," he said to the empty room, "and yet I do. I want to get everyone out of the way who opposes me. But no . . . I'm not like that at all. I've never killed anyone. I never wanted to. Who am I?"

Resistance to the Story's voice caused him physical pain. It had been small at first and he had not connected the events, but as time went on he realized what was actually happening. It started as a stabbing sensation in his heart and spread to all parts of his body and spirit. If he fought it for too long he fell unconscious. At least, he _thought_ he did. He could never remember what had happened when he came back to himself. Sometimes he wondered whether he was going about furthering his plans of controlling the world without conscious knowledge of it. The thought frightened him, but no matter how he struggled to keep hold of his senses, his body was not able to hold out under the strain. And lately, the periods where he recalled nothing were getting longer.

"If I can just complete my score for the ballet, everything will change," he gasped. "The world everywhere will be better because of it. And I will be able to guide it without being hindered. The pain will be gone then, too." He slouched down further, his other hand trembling as it lay on the desk's surface.

But the nagging thought would not go away. Was he trying to encourage himself . . . or convince himself? It was a question he could not answer.

When the door was quietly opened, he did not even look up.

"I knew you'd find a way in here sooner or later," he said instead.

"How did you know it was me?" Rue asked, shutting the door behind her.

"I recognize the sound of your footsteps." Autor forced himself to straighten in the chair and look at her, clenching a fist against the searing pain behind his eyes.

She looked at him, her striking wine-colored eyes filled with sincere concern. "Autor, what's wrong?" she asked. "You don't look well."

"I'm fine," he answered, though he knew he must look ill. Being around Rue, however, took away much of his anguish. He relaxed his hand, uncurling his fingers.

"You've been dancing beautifully," he said.

She was not in the mood to discuss her dancing. "I've been wanting to talk to you, Autor," she said, walking closer to the desk. "There are things I've never told you about me. And I think now is the time when you need to hear them."

He blinked in surprise. "What are you talking about, Rue?" he asked.

She sighed, suddenly looking so tired. "I have an idea of what you're going through," she said. "I've struggled with the darkness in my heart too."

He stared at her, words lost to him for the moment. This wonderful girl had gone through such trials? She always seemed so composed and graceful, as if nothing bothered her. Of course, he knew better than some how easy it was to hide behind a façade.

"I think that's why it bothers me so much that I haven't been able to help you," she said now. "I think of how lost I was and I don't want to see that happen to you."

"I'm not lost," he said. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

"I thought that too," Rue told him. "Or I did at first. When I started having doubts, I tried to convince myself that I didn't really have them. But it got more difficult as time went by."

Autor frowned, his expression unreadable. "Why don't you sit down?" he said, gesturing to the couch across from the desk.

"Thank you." Rue crossed to the couch and sat, looking to him. She shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the discussion but feeling that it must continue.

"As an infant, I was kidnapped by ravens," she began at last. "I was raised in the dimension where the Monster Raven was held captive and grew up believing that I was his daughter Princess Kraehe. He always told me that I had been born into an ugly human body even though I was a crow. I hated the idea. When I met Mytho as a child, I told him I was a person and gave myself the name Rue. But no matter how much I tried to pretend, I knew I was living a lie."

Autor leaned forward, emotional and outraged. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!" he said. "How could the Raven tell you such lies?" In disbelief he added, "How could you believe them?"

She shook her head. "The Raven cared for no one but himself," she said. "And I . . . I was always starved for love and acceptance, which he told me I would never receive from anyone other than him and Mytho. As I grew older, the lies made me very insecure. I was terrified of losing love. When Princess Tutu appeared and starting returning Mytho's heart, he became infatuated with her and I was certain I was going to lose him forever. It didn't help that ravens and crows have always been his enemies. If he realized I was a crow, that would split a rift between us even if Tutu didn't."

Autor stared at her, stunned. "What did you do?" he asked, his voice hushed.

Rue disdainfully picked at a piece of fuzz on her skirt. "I had blocked my memories of being Kraehe, not wanting anyone to know that I was a crow," she said. "But I subconsciously drew them out again after Tutu restored several of Mytho's heart shards. I fought against Tutu in desperation, believing that the only way I could keep Mytho as mine was if he remained as he was, emotionless and without a heart." She tried to see beyond the reflective glass hiding Autor's eyes, but at the angle of the light it was impossible.

"I was selfish," she said. "I know that now. I really think I knew it then, but I wouldn't allow myself to think it because I was so afraid of losing Mytho's love." She sighed. "It only got worse after I took the heart shard of Love.

"The Raven had told me that he had a task for me to perform if I ever got one of the heart shards. When I took that one to him, he had me dye it in his blood." Autor gasped. "He said it would make Mytho into a prince that loved crows and then we would be able to be married." Rue gave a wry, humorless smile. "But it didn't work out that way.

"Mytho began to change, just not the way I'd hoped and been told. The Raven's blood began to . . ." Her voice broke, and she had to stop for a moment before she could go on. She sounded strained as she continued, "It began poisoning him. He grew dark and cold and cruel, relishing his tasks of capturing young and beautiful hearts for the Raven. Thankfully, he never succeeded—Princess Tutu always made sure of that. But I refused to believe there was a problem. Even as he began to verbally tear my own heart to shreds, I clung in desperation to the Raven's words. I thought that Mytho was suffering because he was always fighting against the Raven's blood, and that if he would only, fully accept it, he would become the Prince of the Crows and we would live happy together."

Autor frowned, silent now. From her story of Mytho, he had started to gather why she was telling him this. She was comparing his situation to Mytho's—or to her own. But that would not work; she would not convince him to abandon his goals so easily.

_Can't you see what you're doing? _he screamed in his mind. _Can't you see how this story __**does**__ apply to you? You haven't been bathed in Raven's blood, but in the blood of power. Everything you hoped for and dreamed of may be coming true, albeit not in the way you hoped. You never wanted to be the obsessed madman you are now._

But his power-hungry side only laughed at him. He was in control now, thanks to the Story. He would never relinquish that again.

"The Raven's words about no one but him and Mytho loving me seemed to be true," Rue said now. "I couldn't even keep someone under my spell long enough to try to perform the ritual that would send him to the Raven. It may have been his own willpower, when I think of it now, but back then it seemed like a confirmation of everything I'd feared.

"And then I met you." Her eyes turned pleading, silently asking Autor to listen to her and accept her words.

"I . . . I was going to do the same thing to you that I'd tried and failed to do to Femio."

Autor rocked back, the statement a harsh blow. "You were going to take my heart?!" he gasped, placing a hand over the left side of his chest.

Rue nodded. "I led you all across town with that as my intention," she said. "But then you . . ." Her eyes glistened. "You said the words the Raven told me I would never hear from anyone besides him and Mytho. And you told me you would give your life for my sake. The Raven said _no one_ would be willing to do that for me. You cast doubt on everything I'd been taught all of my life."

"You laughed in my face," Autor said, his voice dark.

Rue flinched. "I know," she said. She leaned forward in her desperation to have Autor understand. "I thought it couldn't be for real. And whether or not you meant it, I felt horrible. I couldn't send you to the Raven, and I couldn't bear to keep you there when I knew I'd been planning to do it. So I told you to go home."

"I meant it," Autor said, still in that same dark tone. "I'd loved you in silence for years, but I never had the courage to confess."

Rue stood, walking the few steps back to the desk. "Autor, I'm sorry for everything I did that hurt you," she said. "You showed me that you have a beautiful heart. And I can't bear to see you lose it now any more than I could then."

"Princess Kraehe isn't trying to take it now," Autor sneered, getting to his feet.

Rue grabbed his wrist. "What's pecking at your heart now is the Raven of Power!" she said in all urgency. "It will corrupt you just as much or more than the Monster Raven would have. You have to fight it, Autor. Please, I'm begging you!" Her eyes filled with tears. "Don't walk this path. Don't suffer the same heartaches I did. You'll only hurt yourself . . . and the people who love you."

Autor's eyes flickered. "Rue," he whispered. He gazed at her, trembling. "You're crying. Why?"

She blinked, only now realizing that the tears had spilled over. "Because . . . because I'm so afraid for you, Autor," she said.

"For me?" He stood still, mulling over her words in his mind. Then slowly, he eased himself closer to her, his lips brushing against hers.

Again she was surprised. But though she did not, could not, return the gesture, she let him kiss her.

Without warning he pulled back, striking her across the face. She cried out, stumbling away from the desk as she raised a hand to the stinging red mark across her cheek.

"You don't love me!" he yelled. "You never did. Don't pretend you're interested in me now!"

She stared at him, shaking. Now she could see his eyes very well. They were on fire.

"You violated a direct rule by coming in here!" he went on. "Get out. _Get out!_"

She stayed where she was. "Autor, please," she tried again. "Listen to me! I saw the you I remember just a moment ago. You can overcome the side of you that wants power. You can conquer your anger and your fears. I know it's difficult. But you don't have to act all on your own. You have friends, Autor—Ahiru and Fakir and Mytho and . . ." She swallowed hard. "And me."

"I don't need friends!" he retorted. "I don't need you or anyone else. That's what I'm going to prove. I'll take over this world all on my own and show that I'm actually capable of something other than making tea and doing research!"

A shadow darkened the bottom of the door. "Are you having a problem, Master?" the business manager's voice asked.

"Yes, I am!" Autor retorted. "You weren't vigilant enough. Miss Rue has gotten in here. Escort her out, then come back so I can deal with you."

Rue stared towards the opening door, then back to Autor in desperation. She was losing him. He was going to have to suffer another of the lessons she had learned as Kraehe—you can only begin to heal after you've hit the bottom.

"Autor," she began, but he cut her off.

"Go with him," he snarled. "And don't try to come back up here. Just perform as you're told!"

She searched his eyes one last, hopeless time before turning and walking towards the door with poise and grace. When she was there, she glanced over her shoulder, back at the conflicted boy who was glaring at her in rage. "Goodbye, Autor," she told him, brushing past the old man at the door and heading for the stairs.

A quaking hand reached up, digging into his hair. "Rue," he choked out, watching as the door to his office was pulled shut. _"Rue!"_ He crashed into his chair, the color draining from his face. "I didn't want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. Why . . . why can't I control myself?!"

"_Why? Because the Story won't let you, Autor, my boy."_ Drosselmeyer sneered. _"It's ravenous for despair and tragedy, and it will get them by any means, including by turning against its creator. It just goes to show how ungrateful and selfish things are, doesn't it?"_

****

Fakir slammed his pen to the table with a despairing and angry curse. He could not write. No matter how he tried to come up with a Story that would end this insanity, the most he had done was create many varied inkblots on the page. The words that he wanted—_needed_—to put down were not forthcoming.

He leaned forward, lacing his fingers and resting his forehead against them. Was the only thing left to rely on Rue? She had been rehearsing with Autor's company for weeks and still had not managed to see him. This could go on indefinitely. How could he just sit around and wait with some vain hope of her achieving success?

And from her description of Autor's business manager, Fakir knew it was the leader of the Bookmen. That worried him even more. For Autor to have actually brought them under his control, his powers would have to be exceptionally strong. Either that or the Bookmen's minds were weak, but Fakir was not going to cling to that thought. Autor had previously put almost all of Kinkan Academy in a trance, after all—and Fakir did not trust that they were not still under some sort of spell of his. Life proceeded more or less as always, yet there was a certain tension in the air. Something was not right.

He swore again, glaring down at his ink-spotted paper. _Why was he so helpless?!_

"Does saying that change the situation any?"

Fakir started, looking up as Mytho entered the kitchen. With a sigh he pushed himself back from the table, running a hand into his hair.

"Nothing changes it," he said. "How did this even _happen?_ Autor wasn't supposed to have strong enough powers to write Stories, and now just look at what he's done! Kinkan, and worse—the world—is falling under this spell of his. He's controlling the Bookmen, obviously so they won't be a threat to him. Everyone's anticipating this ballet he's writing, a ballet that's probably going to change the course of life as we know it." He looked disparagingly at the sheets of paper on the table. "And here I am, Drosselmeyer's direct heir, unable to pen a single letter to stop him."

Mytho sat down at the chair next to him. "Maybe you're not meant to stop him, Fakir," he said.

Fakir frowned. "Then who is?" he said.

"I don't know," Mytho admitted, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You're worried about Rue," Fakir said.

"Yes." Mytho nodded. "She's close to Autor every day, even though he won't let her in to see him. I don't want to think he would ever harm her, but . . . knowing what he's becoming, I do worry . . . just as you worried about Ahiru that day."

Fakir rubbed his eyes. "She said she was told that the ballet is almost finished," he said. "When it's performed in front of an audience in its entirety, that's probably when there's no turning back."

"For any of us," Mytho agreed. "Including Autor."

"We have to stop him before then." Fakir pushed the papers away from him. "If Rue refuses to perform on opening night, I wonder if that would stall him long enough for us to do something," he mused.

Mytho shook his head. "I don't know. I'd like to think that Rue can't be controlled by his music, but I'm wondering if she can and he just hasn't exercised that power over her yet." He gazed at the table. "And trying to stop him directly on opening night would be very risky."

"Every way we could try to stop him is risky." Fakir let his arms hang at his sides. "I'm just at a loss."

The door opened, bringing them both to attention. Mytho's eyes widened when he saw Rue standing there, a cruel red mark on her left cheek. Though she tried to appear composed, her hand trembled as she closed the door behind her.

"Rue!" Mytho exclaimed, getting up from the table and going to her. "What happened?!"

Fakir stood as well, his eyes narrowed, and he heard Ahiru come to the doorway in time to hear Rue's reply.

"I talked to Autor today," she said quietly. "It was the same as before—I could see the Autor we remember, but only for short moments. His darker self, the side that only wants power and revenge, has taken a stronger hold on him." She moved to sit at the table, disconsolate at her failure.

Ahiru rushed into the room. "Rue, you're hurt!" she exclaimed, before Mytho could do so. "What happened?!"

Rue raised a hand to her cheek. "He struck me," she admitted. "It doesn't hurt, really." _Not physically, at least,_ she added to herself.

Ahiru's eyes went wide. "No!" she cried. "He couldn't!"

Mytho pulled up a chair by Rue, deeply concerned. "He's fallen further than I thought," he said. "Rue, you shouldn't go back."

She shook her head. "I have to," she said. "I'm the only one who can get close enough to him."

Fakir stared at the scene, a frown coming over his features. "What is it I'm missing here?" he said, crossing his arms. "It looks like all of you are keeping something from me."

Ahiru looked up, guilt in her eyes at the truth of Fakir's statement. But it was Rue who spoke.

"Autor's had feelings for me for a long time," she said. "Before any of this happened, he told me he loved me."

Fakir's eyes widened. "I never would've thought . . ." But he let the sentence trail off as he sat down again. There were other questions he wanted to ask; nevertheless, he kept his mouth shut. There were more pressing matters to address.

"So, what now?" he said instead.

Rue took a deep breath. "The final rehearsals are this week," she said. "The opening performance is next Wednesday.

"I'll stay with the company and keep practicing my part. On opening night, before the show gets underway, I'll let the three of you into the theatre. Autor is always watching the rehearsals, but he'll be busy on opening night. There should be a chance for me to smuggle all of you inside." From her calm, even tone, she had been thinking about this a great deal. But as she spoke, there was a certain sadness in her voice.

"And then what?" Fakir said. "The final confrontation?"

"It will have to be," Mytho said. "We can't let the ballet be performed."

Ahiru bit her lip. "But . . . what will happen?" she asked, her voice quavering. "We can't hurt him!"

"We'll use these final days to prepare in whatever way we can," Mytho said. "There has to be some secret, some way of bringing our friend back in control of himself." He looked to Fakir. "Maybe there's something in the library that would help us?"

"I've looked," Fakir said in frustration. "I've never found anything about saving someone corrupted by his own power-lust."

Rue frowned. "Mytho, you and Ahiru have both said you think there's something else wrong with Autor," she said. "Ahiru, you suggested maybe the Story itself has something to do with it."

Ahiru nodded. "Y-yeah. . . ." She looked down. "But I don't really know. I just said it because I can't stand thinking that Autor's really like this all by himself." Tears pricked at her eyes. "I used to think he was just a really big jerk, but then I saw how nice he was and . . ." Her shoulders quaked.

Fakir ruffled her hair affectionately. ". . . The only people who could maybe answer that are Drosselmeyer and the Bookmen," he said, his eyebrows knitting. "And we can't ask any of them. Drosselmeyer probably wouldn't tell us even if he could, and if the spell was broken over the Bookmen, they'd probably just immediately try to cut off Autor's hands and end things that way."

Mytho paused, mulling over their options. "Fakir, what about the oak tree?" he asked at last.

Fakir blinked. "I've gone to it several times while I've been trying to write," he said. "It's been silent."

Ahiru looked to him in confusion. "Why would it be like that?" she said.

"I don't know." Fakir shook his head. "Usually it's when I've come to ask something it wants me to figure out on my own."

"Have you tried asking it about Autor's Story?" Mytho wanted to know.

"No," Fakir said. "I've been too caught up in trying to write my own Counterstory."

Ahiru gripped his arm. "Then you should go again and ask it about Autor's Story!" she exclaimed. "Ask it if the Story is hurting Autor and if there's a way to save him!"

Fakir stared into those pleading blue eyes, the eyes of the clumsy, pure-hearted girl that he cared for so deeply. Even as a duck, her eyes had been the same—kind, caring, and filled with a desire to do good and help. He could see that in her eyes now. All she wanted was to rescue someone who was a dear friend. She could not think of Autor as an enemy, even after all the pain he had brought them. And Fakir knew that even if Autor was not her friend, even if he never had been, she would still have the same burning desire to bring him back to himself.

"Alright," he agreed. "Tomorrow I'll go ask it."

Ahiru cheered, throwing her arms around his neck. He rocked back, startled.

"H-hey!" he exclaimed.

Mytho managed a chuckle, while Rue smiled in gentle amusement.

And from his dimension, Drosselmeyer grinned.

"_Plan while you're able, everyone,"_ he said. _"Yes, try your very hardest to save Autor from himself and from the Story. It will be that much more devastating when you fail completely!"_


	7. Mosso

**Prompt #16 – **_**Mosso (Fighting)**_

Fakir sighed as he crouched down by the rock in the museum grounds. Though he did not want the memories to plague him, here they were anyway—just as they came every time he journeyed to this spot. It was impossible not to remember that night when Autor had explained about the Story-Spinners and their oak tree—and later had been electrocuted when the tree had communed with Fakir. Though Fakir had not actually been aware that had happened, Ahiru had told him later.

That was the first time Autor had needed his help. Things had been so much different then, when they had been fighting against Drosselmeyer's Story . . . and had all been on the same side.

He clenched his teeth, placing his hand on the rock. Would there be silence again? This was a problem he did not know how to solve on his own. He needed the tree's help!

"_Please, talk to me,"_ he said, praying his words would not be ignored.

For a long moment he felt nothing but darkness and silence. Then there came a waving of leaves in his mind and the oak tree sighed. _"Your paper is still blank."_

"_I don't know how to write this!"_ Fakir exclaimed. He was sitting at the base of the tree, finally welcomed in for whatever turn the conversation would take. It was a relief, yet he dreaded what he might learn.

"_Is it your Story to write?"_ the tree returned.

Fakir frowned. _"I . . . I don't know,"_ he said. _"Actually, this time I came to ask you about Autor's Story. Is the Story itself corrupting him? Is there any way to save him?"_

"_There are many ways to corrupt,"_ said the tree. _"And there are many ways to save."_ The leaves rustled again, then were still.

"_Autor's an idiot,"_ Fakir growled. _"You never chose him because you knew he couldn't take the pull of the power, didn't you?"_

"_The purest gems are often the easily tarnished. Yet power is not always an ill thing. For good or ill, the ability is in his veins."_

"_But he's not using it for good!"_ Fakir protested. _"You know what he's doing, don't you? And how he's changing."_ He clenched his teeth. _"Or . . . was he always like this, and finally getting hold of the power is just bringing his real self to light?"_

"_Is that what you believe?"_

"_I don't know!"_ Fakir said again, his frustration rising to the surface. _"I don't know who Autor is anymore. I don't know if I ever knew. I never thought he'd betray me."_

"_See beyond the suffering of the betrayed and to the suffering of the betrayer."_

"_Autor brought this on himself,"_ Fakir retorted. _"If he's suffering, he deserves it."_

"_Are these your true feelings?"_

By now Fakir was exasperated and frustrated. The tree often talked in riddles, but today he needed it to be straightforward if he was going to get anywhere.

"_All I wanted to know is if he's being corrupted by the Story and if he can be saved,"_ he exclaimed. _"I can't make sense of your answer."_

"_Then return only when you understand."_

"_No, wait!"_ Fakir protested.

But he had already been thrust out of the oak tree's realm. He started, coming back to himself as he knelt beside the rock. A chill autumn breeze nipped at his cheeks and arms, having gone unnoticed when he had been exchanging words with the tree.

He leaned back, running a hand into his hair. Why had the oak tree started to question him about himself when it should have answered his own questions about Autor? Why were Fakir's feelings important? Especially if this was not his Story to write?

"Are those my true feelings?" he found himself whispering aloud. He was angry, he was hurt, he felt betrayed.

Ahiru and Rue had seen Autor shifting personalities, but Fakir had only seen Autor bathed in his madness and power-lust. Was that part of why he could not feel about Autor as the girls did? But Mytho had not encountered Autor at all, and yet he kept insisting that he sensed that not everything was Autor's fault.

His head dropped as he stared forlornly at the grass. "I don't want him to suffer," he muttered. "I want to save him. I hate that I can't do anything. But I'm still angry. I'm still hurt."

_Did_ part of him want Autor to suffer? If so, was he just righteously indignant . . . or was he giving in to the same dark feelings that had pushed Autor on this path?

It was no wonder that he could not write a Story to save Autor if part of him felt hateful. But he kept going back to when the tree had also said that maybe it was not his Story to write in the first place.

_This is ridiculous! Everything's contradictory!_

Fakir pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose. _This would be so much easier if I knew whether the Autor I thought I knew is really there,_ he said to himself. _What if he's always been a façade? I know he wants power._

But since when had Story-Spinning, or fighting to save a supposed friend, ever been easy?

_Maybe I just have to stop doubting,_ Fakir mused. _Why can't I believe in Autor like the others do? He did save my life. Why can't I believe that maybe he wanted to save me personally as well as just saving me to write the Story?_

Uzura, watching with Drosselmeyer, felt the tears come to her eyes. _"He did zura!"_ she exclaimed. _"He told me so zura. He lied to you, Fakir zura."_

Drosselmeyer smirked. _"Ah, but Fakir will never know that."_

_If I can't believe in Autor, I should be able to believe in Ahiru and Mytho,_ Fakir thought. _And maybe through them, I'll be able to believe in Autor._

Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet. Was that really all he could do right now—just believe? If he was not meant to write the Story, did that mean Autor himself would finish it? Was he supposed to trust that Autor would come back to himself and not keep turning everything into a tragedy?

But _would_ Autor come back to himself if the others were not there to encourage him? It certainly had not done much good so far, though he supposed that to even see a glimpse of the old Autor would be some kind of victory.

Rue had said his darker side was getting a stronger hold. If they kept trying to get through to his good side, would they eventually succeed? Or would he only get angry at the interference and close himself off all the more?

Fakir ran a hand into his hair. He did not know the right thing to do in this mess. For the time being, there was probably nothing to do other than to go along with Rue's and Mytho's plans—but Mytho's involved seeking for a way to help Autor before they had to have the final confrontation. And so far, that seemed hopeless.

_There's only a few days,_ he thought. _Will we find something if we keep looking?_

And what if they turned up nothing and they could not bring Autor back to himself? What solution to save the world did they have then?

He stiffened as words he had once spoken to Princess Tutu flashed through his mind, words that he had said when he had fought to protect Mytho with a sword.

"_Could you kill me if you had to? If it came to it, I could kill you."_

That threat had long ago ceased to be true where Tutu was concerned. But this situation was different. With the entire world in danger, and Autor out of his mind . . . would Fakir be forced to make such a drastic choice? _Could_ he?

"Autor," he muttered, staring across the cold sky in the general direction of the theatre. "Don't force my hand like that. Don't make me end your life. Because . . . if it came to it, I'd have to do it."

The autumn wind blew against his face and hair, sharp and foreboding. For a moment he stood there and faced it, his eyes narrowed. Then he turned and walked away.

****

"There's something I've been wondering."

Ahiru blinked in surprise, turning to look as Mytho spoke. They were going through every possible book in the library that might be of some use to them, but after hours of searching in vain, Ahiru was ready to give up. She had already slumped over the table in discouragement. Mytho's determination to keep looking, however—as well as his sudden comment—drew Ahiru back upright.

"How is it that everyone seems to remember us?" Mytho went on. "I know Fakir said it had started to happen, and that he did not think Autor was involved. But if not Autor, then who?" He shook his head. "I thought it wasn't important, so I set it aside. Still, I can't help wondering if I'm mistaken and it's somehow relevant to our problems."

Ahiru could only give a helpless shrug. "We were really surprised when it started happening," she said. "It was like you'd never left. . . . Or at least, they talked like that. Everyone was wondering if you and Rue were going to come back." She made a face. "And some people started passing around weird, awful rumors, like that you and Rue had been taken off by the ghost knight or fell in the river under the riddle bridge."

Mytho chuckled. "I see."

"And some of them were asking Fakir if he knew where you guys were," Ahiru said. "Fakir was getting kind of annoyed."

"I can imagine," Mytho said.

"Some have even started recalling the more unusual elements of Drosselmeyer's Story," he mused now. "I heard a couple of students today confused because they kept imagining the gray tomcat on the grounds being the ballet instructor." He set down the latest book, crossing his arms on the surface of the table. "It's so strange."

"It really is weird," Ahiru said.

Mytho hesitated before speaking again. "I've been half-wondering if what's causing it is the Story itself," he said.

"Eh?!" Ahiru stared at him, bewildered. "Fakir ended it! He wrote an ending and everything!"

"I know." Mytho sighed. "But did the Story want to end? Did it want to be unremembered by almost everyone involved?"

Ahiru slumped back, her stomach twisting into uneasy knots. "A Story isn't real," she protested. "I mean, it doesn't have feelings and stuff!"

"There were so many things that seemed hard to believe in the past," Mytho said. "Maybe this is just another one of them. If it could be true at all, of course."

He looked to the alarmed redhead. "Actually, Ahiru, it was you who gave me this idea," he said.

"Me?!" Ahiru exclaimed. Her eyes widened even more. "Really?"

"Really," Mytho said. "When you kept saying maybe the Story was somehow controlling Autor. I know you didn't mean literally, but I started wondering if that could be a possibility."

Ahiru shook her head, her voice rising with each word. "But if a Story has feelings, and it's alive and everything, how can you ever stop it?! You can't kill a Story!"

"Well, technically you _could,_ I imagine, but I would never try it," Mytho said. Quieter he said, "That could destroy all of us."

Ahiru clenched her fists, leaping to her feet. "And what if someone else decided to really do that?! What if someone like the Bookmen decided it?!" She was going to continue her spiel, but her next words trailed off into the air. She slumped down at the chair, her head bowed.

"Ahiru?" Mytho asked in concern. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "I was just thinking," she said sadly. "There's no one yelling at me to be quiet. Autor always did that if someone was talking too loud in the library."

Mytho regarded her with surprise, though only for a moment. He reached over, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"I still believe we can save him, Ahiru," he said. "Especially if it isn't just his own desire for power that's causing the problem."

Ahiru looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "But . . . wouldn't that make it even harder?" she said. "I mean, if there were two things getting in the way of Autor being his regular self."

"It could," Mytho said. "Yet, if Autor himself is a literal victim, he has to be given the strength to fight against the outside influence as well as the inside influence." He looked down. "An inside influence can be much worse."

Ahiru searched his golden eyes, seeking some understanding. "You were a victim too, Mytho," she said. "You couldn't help what you were doing. You were trying so hard to fight the Raven's blood!"

"My best wasn't good enough," Mytho said. "It was only when Rue spoke her words of true love that I was able to overcome the curse."

Ahiru pondered over his words. "Then you mean if we let Autor know how much we really love him, he could get the strength to fight the Story or whatever it is?" she said. "I thought we'd already tried to let him know."

Mytho sighed. "I don't know what would work," he said. "Rue certainly tried yesterday." He turned away. "I didn't want to say anything aloud, but I could see from her eyes that she was losing hope. I believe she's afraid that Autor will walk the same path as Princess Kraehe, and as I myself did under the Raven's blood; only she fears his ending won't be happy."

"But it has to be!" Ahiru insisted. "I don't want him to be hurt anymore. I . . ." She blinked back the tears, yet they would not be denied. Several slipped free of her eyes anyway. "I just want our friend back. And I won't give up on having him back. We have to give him a happy ending, just like all of us had when Fakir ended Drosselmeyer's Story!"

"And we'll all do our best to make sure that comes true," Mytho said.

Ahiru nodded. "I know. I . . ." She reached up, brushing away the stray tears. "It's kind of funny how I ended up feeling so close to Autor. I mean, he can still be annoying when he goes on about his research and acts like a know-it-all. I don't think he cares how it sounds to other people, but I also kind of wonder if he doesn't really know how to act around people because he doesn't talk to them much. I realized a while back that he must be pretty lonely."

She gave a weak laugh. "I'm always getting in with these guys I think are jerks and then finding out they're a lot different. . . ." She trailed off, flaming red. "Of course, I don't mean you, Mytho!" she exclaimed, waving her hands. "You were always nice. But I thought both Fakir and Autor were creeps when I met them, and now I love them both and . . ."

Suddenly she was turning an even deeper red. "But I . . . I don't love Autor the same way I love Fakir," she stammered. "Autor's my friend and all, but Fakir is . . . nevermind." Now her voice had descended to an embarrassed squeak.

Mytho just smiled gently. "Does Fakir know how you feel about him?" he asked.

Ahiru grabbed the nearest book and randomly opened it, pretending to be diligently searching once more. "Um, I don't know," she said. "Maybe? Could be? . . . Would he?"

Mytho reached over, lowering the book enough that he could see it was upsidedown. "You should let him know," he said. "Just in case he doesn't. After all . . ." He winked. "Fakir sometimes doesn't seem to notice what's right in front of him."

Ahiru gave a weak laugh. "Yeah. . . ."

"Of course, I'm one to talk," Mytho said. "I wasn't really aware of such things for years."

"Yeah, but you didn't have a heart!" Ahiru said. "So you've got a really good excuse." Muttering, she added, "Fakir doesn't have an excuse like that."

She sighed, closing the upsidedown book. "Well, we've looked at everything here that we thought could help and we haven't found anything!" she cried, changing the subject.

"Yes . . ." Mytho agreed. "We'd better put these books back where we found them." His eyes flickered, the only visible sign that he was discouraged by the efforts of their search.

Ahiru took up her stack, gritting her teeth at the weight. "Autor would probably say . . . we should leave it up to the librarians to put them back," she gasped. "That we'd . . . get them out of place. And then I'd get mad . . . and say . . . we could put them away just fine. . . ."

Mytho looked at her in concern. "Are you sure you can manage all of those, Ahiru?" he asked. "Maybe you should divide it in half and . . ."

"I've got it!" Ahiru exclaimed.

Without warning she stumbled, swaying forward with the load. With an alarmed _"Quack!"_ her grip loosened, sending the tomes to the floor—along with Ahiru herself. She groaned, plunking her chin on the nearest book. "And maybe Autor would be right," she mumbled.

Mytho had already set aside his own books and was kneeling next to her. "Are you alright, Ahiru?" he gasped.

She sat up, her shoulders slumping. "Yeah, I think so," she said. "At least I'm not turning into a duck anymore when I quack." She snuck a look around at the other patrons, hoping they would not have noticed the commotion. But to her chagrin, they were all looking her way.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, rushing to gather up the fallen books. "You can all just go back to what you were doing now. Everything's okay! There's no cause for alarm!"

Mytho smiled again. "Maybe this time, you really should take half, Ahiru," he said.

"Yeah," Ahiru nodded in agreement. Setting one part of the stack on the table, she took the other half and carried it carefully to the shelf. As Mytho joined her, she bit her lip.

"So . . . what are we going to do?" she said, keeping her eyes focused on replacing the books in their (she hoped) proper places. "Just follow Rue's plan?"

Mytho sighed. "Unless something else comes up, I don't know what else we can do," he said. "We'll just have to pray that this time, the collective efforts of all of us at once can get through to Autor and help him come back."

Ahiru nodded, glowering at the rows of books. Even though she would have gotten upset and yelled, she wished Autor had been there to scold her for making so much noise in the library.

"What if we can't?" she said in a small voice. "What happens to Autor then?"

Mytho stiffened. It was a question he had hoped Ahiru would not ask, as he did not know how to answer. If it came down to sacrificing Autor or sacrificing the world, in good conscience could they really let him take control of the world in his crazed state?

In good conscience, could they really end Autor's life?

"Oh Ahiru," he said softly. "I don't know. I just don't know."

She turned to face him, her blue eyes glistening. In that grief-stricken look, Mytho saw to his surprise and sorrow that Ahiru had been wondering the very things he had been thinking. He had not thought she would have allowed herself to realize that it was a very real possibility, if the idea crossed her mind at all.

"I don't want to sacrifice anyone, Mytho," she said, her voice breaking. "I don't think I could. But I don't know how to save everyone, either."

Mytho looked at her sadly. "Neither do I, Ahiru," he said. "I thought I always had an option on what to do if people needed help. Even if it would hurt me, I was willing to do it for them. But in this situation, I confess I'm at a loss."

Ahiru looked away, remembering her conversation with Fakir on what would happen if he wrote about Princess Tutu being revived. Though she felt a twinge of guilt for not mentioning it, she knew that in good conscience she never could. She would not sacrifice one friend for another.

"Well, you said you believe we can save Autor, right?" she said.

Mytho nodded. "Yes. . . ."

"Then we just have to do our best!" Ahiru turned back to face him, smiling now. "Everything will be okay if we just don't give up."

Mytho blinked in surprise. "You're right," he said. "We must never lose sight of that." He smiled too. "Why don't we see if Fakir and Rue are back yet? It's going to be time to eat soon."

Ahiru nodded in enthusiasm.

_That's right,_ she thought as they left. _We can't lose hope or give up. And I won't think about what'll happen if we fail, because we just __**can't.**_

"_Oh, that's dangerous thinking, little Ahiru,"_ Drosselmeyer sneered. _"Very dangerous thinking. I like it. What will you think when all falls to ruin after all? The devastation you will feel will be even worse than it would be if you allowed yourself to fear your defeat."_

****

Autor had locked himself in his music room for two days, determined to finish the score of his masterpiece. He only had the last two scenes to write, and though the entire world would only be brought under his control when the completed work was performed in front of an audience, just finishing the remaining songs would bring another large portion of the lands under his command. And after he revealed his identity he would be acknowledged for his work at changing the world, and he would have it all in the palm of his hand to continue shaping for good.

But the work was moving slowly, and ground almost entirely to a halt when he reached the finale. It was not writer's block exactly; it was more like part of him did not want to complete the score. It was driving him mad. If anyone had looked in on him now, they would have seen that he was a mess. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his hair a wild mop from his fingers running through it so many times. Ink stained his fingers from writing the notes on the pages in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

"The melodies always flowed before," he said through clenched teeth. "Why am I having so much trouble now, on the eve of my work's debut?"

He raised a shaking hand, adding another chord to the paper. "Write!" he ordered. "Compose it and write it down—_now! __**NOW!**_"

He slammed his other hand on the keys. What was it that was trying to hold him back? Why was part of him being so weak when his lifelong dreams were so close to fulfillment? It did not make sense.

_I always wanted to change the world,_ he said to himself. _I thought that was my purpose, my reason for existence. But when Fakir was chosen instead of me, I thought that was all forsaken and lost. Now I've discovered that through my music, I still have a chance to use the power I always longed for. I've been able to write for months. Why can't I write now?_

_You didn't want to repeat the tragedy of the woman's lost husband,_ his own voice said back to him. _Do you really know what you've been trying to write now? Look at it. Look at it and tell me if that's how you want to go into your new world._

He frowned in confusion. Of course he knew what he had been writing. What was this nonsense? The piece would crown him with glory all on his own, without any princess or anyone else by his side in the changed world.

. . . Because . . .

Because why? . . . What was this? He stared closer at the page. Right at the spot where he had been having so much difficulty, the mood of the music had been considerably altered. It had turned dark and hateful, poisoned by evil thoughts—thoughts that were not and never could be his.

The color drained from his face. "No," he gasped. "No, this can't be true. I . . . I . . ." He took the sheet down, staring in sheer, sickened horror at what his hand had written. "I didn't write this. It wasn't supposed to be like this."

The page repulsed him. He wanted to crumple it up and throw it into the roaring fire to his right. He _tried_ to . . . but his hands would not obey. The moment he tried to bring them together with the paper in between, they burned as if _they_ had been thrust into the fire. He screamed in both surprise and anguish, the sheet slipping out of his hands and to the floor.

_How dare you try to destroy my work?!_

Another voice. He looked up, shaking, but there was no one else visible in the room. He was alone in his madness.

_You gave life to me, but if you are trying to reject me now, you will regret it._

"Who are you?!" he yelled, leaping to his feet so quickly that the bench crashed to the floor behind him. "Tell me, who are you?!"

_I told you. The you that you've been afraid of, the you that is your Story. All writers put a little of themselves into their Stories, but then the Stories go off on their own and become their own, flourishing entities. You were always afraid of putting me into your Stories, but that didn't stop you this time. You started out small and innocent, yet still the tales you wove called me into being because of your deep-seated desires for power. And the more you wrote, the better I was able to force my way into your Stories. Now, you see, I'm even able to write through you._

Autor fell back, horrified and fascinated all at once. "You . . . you're my Story?" he breathed. "I've created something so powerful that it no longer even listens to its creator?"

_Drosselmeyer was aware that this could happen. But he trained himself to become so powerful that it was not a concern for him. You, so confident in your abilities and yet knowing so little of corruption, are weak. Yet you did know that Stories could overrule an immature power. You warned the chosen Story-Spinner of that very thing._

"Yes, but I never knew that a Story could literally . . ." Autor trailed off, forcing himself back to his senses. This was not a time to be amazed by the Story's powers.

"I won't have you put this in my masterpiece!" he said angrily, indicating the fallen sheet. "It isn't what I planned at all."

_**Your** masterpiece? Your masterpiece is me, and I will add whatever I choose. If you will not consent, even as you've now become, then I will repel you completely. You will never have power over me. I won't even allow you to see the world you've been struggling so hard to create. It will be my world, for your Story is about claiming control of the world and I am you and your Story!_

A flaming pain filled Autor's heart. An agonized cry tore from his lips as he stumbled, clawing at his chest with both hands. The dark fire was stronger than before. Illness and dizziness overwhelmed him and he sank to his knees, breathing heavily.

For one moment his eyes cleared, free of the insanity and power-lust that had filled them for months. "What have I done?" he rasped. "My God, what have I done?"

His shoulders slumped and his head dropped. When he looked up again, his eyes bore a wild, murderous gleam that Autor himself would never be capable of holding. He reached down, picking up the fallen page.

"Now," he hissed, "to finish my composition."

Righting the piano bench, he sat upon it and began again to play the dark, wicked music—this time with ease.

"_So, you've finally discovered one of the secrets I took with me to my grave,"_ Drosselmeyer said. _"Too little, too late."_ He gave a mock look of sympathy. _"My, my, corrupted not only by your own madness and dark self, but by your very Story. You are in a sorry state, Autor, my boy. Such a pity. Such a dreadful pity."_

Uzura stared at the scene in the gear with horrified eyes. _"Autor zura,"_ she whispered.

"_I daresay he's gone now, Uzura,"_ Drosselmeyer said. _"At least as we know him."_

Uzura fell to her knees in tears. _"No!" _she retorted. _"No, I won't believe it zura!"_

_The crystalline drops splashed on her drum, accompanying a concerto that was, on the following night, to be stained in blood._

**I hope no one's offended by Autor's exclamation; I truly didn't mean it in a context of him taking God's name in vain.**


	8. Ritenuto

**Notes: There's a couple of throwaway remarks here that pretty much establish the show as taking place in the present day. There are hints in the show that it's at least a possibility, and it's my personal preference. However, I don't want to take away the "old" feel of the town, so I'm thinking they don't use some modern things, such as possibly cars.**

**Prompt #17 – **_**Ritenuto – (Stop Before We Go Any Further)**_

The dreaded day dawned with a tense feeling that hung almost tangibly in the air. As Ahiru awakened and rose to look out the window, she could sense that something was not right. With a frown she undid the latch and threw the panes to the sides, leaning into the crisp morning air. The breeze tousled her red bangs, but did little to ease her worries.

"What's wrong?" she whispered aloud.

Turning from the window, she hurried to the door and flung it open, hoping that someone else would be awake. "Fakir! _Fakir!_" she called as she ran down the hall.

After a moment another door opened and a very grouchy Fakir appeared, rubbing one eye. "Idiot, what are you doing yelling so early?" he said. "You're going to wake up the whole town."

Ahiru stopped in front of his door and fumed. "Something's wrong!" she declared. "I don't know what it is or anything, but I could just feel it! You'll probably say I'm crazy, but it's true! Even the wind doesn't feel right!"

Fakir frowned. "The wind?" he repeated. Going back into his room, he opened his window and leaned out. The day was overcast, though there was no definite sign of an oncoming storm. The breeze, however, carried the same ominous feeling Fakir had sensed ever since Autor had started this insanity—only greatly heightened. He turned away, troubled.

"How did you sense this?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know! Maybe because I used to be a duck? Animals are supposed to sense trouble, you know."

Fakir grunted. "You're right that something's wrong. And I'm sure we both know whose fault it is." Purposely now, he stormed to the radio at the side of his bed and flipped the dial.

"_In world news today, all eyes are on Kinkan Town for tonight's premiere of a new ballet. The score from this ballet is haunting unlike anything that has been heard before and has already touched the lives of a great majority on Earth. Truly, the public premiere of the complete work is a momentous occasion."_

Ahiru stood slack-jawed while Fakir glowered darkly at the electronic device. "Has Autor already brought almost everyone in the world under his spell?!" he growled.

Switching to several other stations soon convinced him of the truth of his concern. All that anyone could talk about was the mysterious ballet and its amazing music. They were completely certain that the premiere would somehow mark the beginning of an exciting new era for the world as a whole.

"They have no idea," Fakir said, snapping off the radio in disgust.

"What are we going to do, Fakir?" Ahiru quavered. Suddenly everything seemed overwhelming.

"We're going to be on our own tonight," Fakir said. "Not that we haven't been alone in this all along."

Ahiru stared at him. "But what about people like Charon and Raetzel?" she exclaimed. "They couldn't have fallen under Autor's spell too, could they?"

"Charon has."

Fakir and Ahiru started and looked up at Mytho's grave tone. The white-haired prince was standing in the doorway, his visage worried.

"Charon?!" Fakir exclaimed, hurrying to his friend's side. "When?"

"I don't know," Mytho said. "He left a note downstairs, saying he was going to attend a meeting of some of the townspeople that would last until it was time to go to the theatre. He said he wanted to see Kinkan's triumph for himself."

Ahiru's mouth fell open again. "He'd never stay in a meeting that long!" she said. "And just last night he said that he didn't understand why the town was putting so much stock in the ballet. Until today, he knew that the academy didn't have some benefactor!"

Fakir frowned. "He could be just trying to figure out why everyone else is so interested," he said, "but we'll have to be on guard. If he's under Autor's spell, he'll try to stop us from stopping Autor." A look of pain and anger flashed through his eyes. How many people were going to fall before this was over? Now Autor even had to take his and Mytho's adoptive father away from them?

Mytho nodded. "Rue's been trying to see Autor for the last several days, but ever since the time she managed to find his office and sneak in, she hasn't been able to get in again. The Bookmen are more vigilant than before."

"And when we do break the spell, we're going to have to watch out for them," Fakir said. "If they realize what they've been doing, or what Autor's been doing, they're going to be furious."

Ahiru bit her lip. "And until it's time to leave for the theatre, all we can do is wait?" she said.

"Just like we've been doing for the last few days," Fakir said in irritation.

Mytho looked to him. "The oak tree wasn't any help at all, then?"

"Not really." Fakir had not spoken about what the tree had told him, only to say that he had not learned anything that would help them. The most that would come from him solving the tree's riddle would be that he would come to a better understanding of his own feelings concerning Autor. Which, while important, would not help them stop him . . . would it?

"Why won't you talk about what it said, Fakir?" Ahiru said in frustration.

"It's not important," Fakir said, walking into the hall.

Ahiru pouted and looked to Mytho for help.

The Swan Prince looked to Fakir's retreating back. "Ahiru would like to know, Fakir," he said. "She's worried."

Fakir paused at the top of the stairs. "She shouldn't be," he said. "Not about that." And he went down to fix breakfast.

Ahiru kicked the woodwork. "I hate it when he gets like this!" she fumed. "He's been so distant ever since this trouble started with Autor. But he's not the only one who's worried about Autor. And he knows it too!"

"Maybe the tree didn't say anything about Autor," Mytho suggested.

Ahiru blinked in surprise. "But if Fakir asked it about Autor, why wouldn't it tell him anything?" she said.

Mytho sighed. "I don't know," he said. "Unless . . ." His eyes widened as a new thought occurred to him.

"Unless what?!" Ahiru exclaimed.

"Unless the tree spoke about Fakir instead," Mytho said.

Ahiru frowned in confusion. "Why would it do that?" she said.

"Only it and Fakir know," Mytho said. "Or maybe not even Fakir does." He looked to the stairs. "Come; we should help Fakir fix breakfast."

****

Rue warmed up at the _barre,_ idly watching the other ballerinas and the danseurs as she worked. They still did not find anything strange about Autor's eccentric rules and arrangements for the production. If anything, since last night they had grown all the more determined and eager to carry on with the show.

Rue had gotten next to nowhere when she had earlier tried to make allies of them in the hopes of getting a little help with stopping Autor. If she could have made the rest of the cast suspicious, it might have slowed or halted the work for a while. But instead they felt that she was looking too deeply into things and that she should relax. Today she did not even bother trying again.

Of course, the excitement in the air was not unusual, especially when this was the opening night, but from the snatches of conversation she had overheard, the cast members were now mostly talking the same as the people on the radio and all over town were doing. Above all else, they seemed eager to meet the one who had put this together with his genius. It was a ballet that would live on forever, with music that touched the soul as no other music ever had or could.

But Rue was more worried than ever. Autor had not played the selections for them the past couple of rehearsals; instead he had arranged to have a music CD provide their music. Today he was playing again, having them practice to one of the lighter songs he had written. But he played as she had never heard him play before. The notes were dark and ominous, despite the cheerful-enough melody. Something else was wrong with him now.

She glanced in the direction of the speaker. Was he just anticipating the performance tonight? Maybe he was merely impatient and anxious. Yet deep down she knew that was not it. If she were honest with herself, and admitted what she had not wanted to face . . .

The way the notes were being played seemed almost evil.

****

Autor sneered as he brought the practice piece to a close. There. Now it was time for the company to change into their costumes for the last dress rehearsal of the ballet. Once it ended, they would have a chance to rest for a while before the audience would start arriving.

He doubted, however, that _he_ would rest. He was much too wide awake.

He reached up, running his fingers over the pages of his music, the sheets he had labored for weeks and months to put together. Tonight they would be heard in their entirety for the first time, including the secret ending he had composed late last night.

But his hand wavered as it came to that page. Slowly he drew back, his hand shaking as he took hold of the letter-opener with the golden bird's head handle. He had left it at the edge of the piano after looking at the day's mail. His eyes flashed as he grasped it and looked back to the offending sheet of music. He would destroy it now. Then what was on it would never come to pass.

He raised his hand, intent on slicing the paper right down the middle. But at the last moment his eyes flickered again, filled with murder, and the letter-opener clattered to the keys.

"_Don't_ defy me another time," he hissed to seemingly no one. "I vowed you wouldn't see the new world. It's _my_ world, since its crafting _is_ me. You have no part in it anymore." He picked up the letter-opener and set it on the piano's shelf, hidden and out of reach. "You feared me for years, and now that I've come to life as your Story, I'll never let you have this body back. So I'll just mock you by leaving this where you can't get it."

"_Well, well,"_ Drosselmeyer said. _"So there is a spark of him left. He hasn't been completely consumed by his Story. How interesting. Still, what will this spark do when his former friends arrive? Will he fight to save them . . . or fulfill his Story's wish and see them dead?"_

Uzura leaned forward in horror. _"No!"_ she said. _"He won't do it zura. You were wrong about him being gone zura. So you're wrong about him hurting Ahiru and Fakir and the others zura!"_

"_We shall see, Uzura,"_ Drosselmeyer said, leaning forward in his chair. _"The final act is about to begin."_ He gave a mock sigh. _"There's a certain melancholy air when a Story is about to end."_ He sneered. _"But when it will be such a heart-wrenching tragedy, it's worth it."_ He began to rock again, looking to the gear as his red eyes flashed with sadistic anticipation. _"You deprived me of my greatest tragedy the last time. Show one to me now!"_

****

All of Kinkan Town had reserved seats for the performance that night. At least, that was how it seemed to Fakir, Ahiru, and Mytho when they arrived at the theatre that evening. The crowd pushed, shoved, and was all around a noisy near-mob.

Fakir looked at one man in disgust as he rammed his elbow into Fakir's chest, then yelled for Fakir to get out of the way. Fakir's already-short temper was quickly being stretched thinner by the behavior of the patrons.

"Some new world," Ahiru mumbled. "If everyone's going to be acting like this, it's not going to be much fun for anyone."

"Including Autor," Fakir grunted. "He'd be disgusted by this scene too."

"Yes, I daresay he would," Mytho said, stiffening as someone else clanked into his sheath. He placed a hand on its belt, making certain it was secure.

"What Autor would really want is a bunch of educated people who could move around like civilized people," Fakir said. His eyes narrowed. "When he started building schools and libraries, that was closer to Autor as we knew him. But _this._" He gestured at the madness around them. "I don't know what to make of this at all."

Ahiru blinked up at him. "Fakir, you're sounding more sure about Autor!" she exclaimed.

Fakir froze. It was true; he did. And strange, his words were somehow a release from the myriad of conflicted, angry emotions he had felt for weeks. Did that mean he was at last at peace with his feelings and had come to his decision about Autor?

"Yeah," he said, "I am." He looked to her and then to Mytho, allowing a bit of a smile. "Maybe I've decided that Autor really was our friend after all." _Or at least maybe I've decided to hope for that,_ he added to himself.

Ahiru brightened. "I'm so glad!" she said. "I know he's in there somewhere, Fakir. And tonight we have to bring him back!"

Mytho smiled too, then looked to the side door that they were supposed to enter. "I hope Rue was able to sneak away in order to let us inside," he said. "We could be in for quite a problem if she isn't waiting as she said."

"The line's right in front of that door too," Ahiru moaned. "How are we even going to get over there?!"

Fakir glowered at the door. If this large crowd saw them trying to get inside, there could be a riot. "We need a distraction," he said. Gritting his teeth he said, "Was everyone in town really put under Autor's spell?"

"Not I, _mon amis!_"

The trio whirled. Femio was approaching, riding his bull. He looked relieved to have found others still in possession of their minds, but upset at Autor's handiwork.

"Femio!" Ahiru said in surprise. "Wow, you really are good at escaping spells and mind-control and that kind of thing."

"But of course!" Femio said. "What else would you expect from one qualified to be a true prince?"

"Give me a break," Fakir muttered.

Mytho looked to him. "Actually, strange as it is, he may have just done that," he said. "You said we need a distraction, Fakir."

Fakir's eyes widened. "Him?" he said. _Well, he's definitely distracting._ To Femio he said, "Maybe you can be of use to us. We need to get inside the theatre, but we can't as long as everyone's looking. If you could create a diversion so we can get inside, you'll be doing your part in getting everything back to normal."

Femio jumped down from the bull's back. "I, distract them while you go inside to fight Autor?" he said in indignation. "I should be right with you!"

"But how will all of us get in?" Ahiru protested, trying not to think about how horrifying the confrontation would likely be if Femio came along. "We have to go in that door over there, and people are right in front of it!"

"That's very true, Femio," Mytho said. "If we all tried to go in, we would be right back at the same predicament we were in before you appeared."

"One of you could certainly distract them," Femio said. But then he paused, looking deep in thought. "On second thought, all of these poor, misguided souls are here for Autor's ballet. Perhaps this is a chance for me to give them a performance of true art."

"That's the spirit!" Ahiru said, hoping they were not making a mistake. "Go out there and show them what you can do. Good luck!"

Femio smiled in pride. "Give me just one moment to change," he said, and vanished into the vacant building next door.

"I hope we don't regret this," Fakir grumbled.

"Oh, I'm . . . pretty sure he'll distract them," Ahiru said. "I just hope he doesn't get hurt. . . . I mean, being trampled by his bull is one thing, but if all those people got mad and came at him. . . ." She shuddered.

"He'll be fine," Fakir said. "He's probably better off than we'll be."

But his eyes went wide in utter shock and disbelief as Femio emerged from the building in red ballet shoes, white tights, and little else, save for red and blue splotches painted on the tights and his bare upper torso.

"He just got weirder than I thought was even possible," Fakir muttered.

"Wait'll you see his dance," Ahiru answered.

"I think I'm afraid to," Fakir said.

Femio leaped into the road, his arms spread dramatically. "Friends and countrymen, I am here to introduce you to a performance of genius. No one should be deprived of this experience."

The bull lowed in response. The audience muttered and talked amongst themselves, but turned to look. As Femio began his "dance", however, the people shouted in furious disapproval.

"What kind of genius is this?!" a man yelled as Femio balanced on one foot.

Ahiru snuck a look at Fakir. He was staring at the scene, unable to look away. But at last he turned, shaking his head. "I've been scarred for life," he growled. "Let's go while they're occupied."

The three friends hurried across the street and to the building. No one was looking their way now; they were all too busy screaming at Femio to get out of the road. And finally he stopped his performance, raising his hands to the sky.

"Oh Heaven!" he exclaimed. "My shortcomings are too great. I'm still unable to get through to these people bound by Autor's false love. I beseech you to punish this sinner!"

In one hand he waved a red cloth. And the bull charged, knocking him to the ground while several people cried out in alarm and others just swore and yelled in disbelief.

Fakir reached to turn the doorknob of the theatre. "I'm never going to get used to that," he said.

Before he could open the door, Rue opened it from the inside. "Hurry!" she hissed. "Autor's came out with a piano on the stage and has the others dancing. I think he's controlling them all right now."

Ahiru gasped. The haunting music filled the building; even here at the door, she could hear it. And as she, Fakir, and Mytho hastened through the door and inside, a sound of countless bulls lowing made her stop and whirl around to stare. An entire bovine herd had apparently heard Femio's bull and now had arrived to meet with it. The crowd shrieked and yelled as the animals ran right through their midst, disrupting their line.

"That will keep them busy," Fakir grunted as he shut the door behind them.

"It's going to be my turn to go onstage soon," Rue said. "Let's go before he notices I'm not there." She looked to the others, her expression grave as she led them up the hallway. "This time I don't know what's wrong with him. I felt something from him that I haven't felt before."

"What do you mean, Rue?!" Ahiru exclaimed.

But Rue never had the chance to reply. The Bookmen's leader stepped into their path, regarding them with that eerie smile.

"Your presence is requested onstage, Miss Rue," he said. "And I see you've brought guests." He half-turned. "My master will have to be informed of this."

Fakir glowered at his past adversary. This was beyond strange, to see him working for Autor. It had been bizarre enough to just hear it from Rue. But right now, he did not want to say anything that could possibly awaken the man's true memories. It was safer to have him continue to think Autor was his master.

"He already knows," Rue bluffed, though she could not say she was certain it was a bluff.

"Come this way," they were told.

At the end of the hallway they turned right, going down another corridor before being brought to a set of double doors. The Bookman pushed one of them open, revealing the left side of the stage. "Go in," he said, still smiling in an unsettling way.

The furious and clearly crazed strains of the piano were perfectly audible as the small group entered the theatre. Fakir led the procession, his green eyes filled with a mixture of emotions—anger and outrage and frustration being the most prominent. Yet there was a way in how he carried himself that showed he was also worried and concerned, not just for everyone who was under a spell, but also for the one who had caused it.

"Autor!" he yelled. "Stop pounding on the piano and listen to us!"

The frenetic playing did not stop, but it quieted—slightly. "So, you've made it this far," the other boy observed as the dancers pirouetted around the stage. "I knew you would. I wouldn't expect any less from the direct descendant of Drosselmeyer."

As he looked up, Ahiru let out a gasp. He was nothing like the one who had helped them fight against Drosselmeyer's story. His twisted visage, filled with power-lust and greed and hatred, attested to that. As if what he had been causing all over Kinkan Town wasn't enough of a testament.

Fakir gritted his teeth. Rue was right—something was different about Autor this time. He had gotten far worse. The feeling that emanated from him now was pure evil. Fakir's worst fears seemed to be true—their friend was gone now. It was obvious in his eyes. But he still did not want to believe it.

"Wake up, Autor!" he cried, making his way to the edge of the stage. "You idiot—what do you think you've been doing?! Writing songs like Drosselmeyer wrote stories. . . . Trying to take over the world. . . . Leaving everyone involved hurt and heart-broken?!" He slammed his hand on the top of the banister's finished wood as he reached the top of the stairs. "Everything you'd been fighting against when Drosselmeyer controlled Kinkan Town!"

Autor's eyes blazed. "Don't you see, I've been bringing the world to a better existence! That was what I always wanted to use my powers to do!"

"This is a better existence?!" Fakir retorted, trying to see around the spinning dancers. "It's a dictatorship! You're controlling everyone's lives! You have a tighter hold on everyone than Drosselmeyer thought he had."

"And yet you all made your way in here. I wonder why." Autor smirked. "Maybe only because I wanted you to come." His voice rose. "I am greater than any of the Story-Spinners!" he burst out. "I'm greater than you, Fakir. I'm even greater than Drosselmeyer himself!"

At this declaration a shocked, disbelieving silence swept over the group. But it was broken just as quickly.

"Stop it!" Rue wailed, running up the stairs and past Fakir. She dodged the ballerinas and danseurs on the stage as she swiftly leaped and danced her way to the piano. "Listen to yourself! Do you even know what you're saying?! Do you?!"

Autor stared at her, the surprise flickering in his brown eyes. "Rue . . ." he said, his voice hushed. For just a moment he looked like the old Autor . . . like the boy who had stumbled across Rue's path when she had been in the depths of despair.

Like the one who had told her he loved her of his own free will.

"You're a good person, Autor!" Rue exclaimed. "Don't do this." She gripped the piano, her face close to his. There was an urgency in her eyes and in her voice, though it lowered. "If I could come back from being Kraehe, you can come back from this."

Autor was still staring, his cheeks red, his eyes conflicted. But without warning he brought his fingers down on the piano keys in a harsh, unforgiving series of chords. "No," he said, cold now. "Do you think I will listen to the one who laughed in my face when I told her my true and sincere feelings?" Unbridled hatred flashed across his features. "I want you to suffer most of all!"

Ahiru cried out in horror. "Rue!" she screamed, trying to run forward.

She only barely made it onto the stage, Mytho right behind her, when a sudden, dark whirlwind swirling through the room sent her flying off her feet with a yelp. Fakir and Mytho both tried to grab her but failed, instead being caught up into smaller gusts that emerged from the parent cyclone and scooped them up. Ahiru soon joined them, crying out in shock and terror. But though she was alarmed at their situation, her gaze was locked on Rue, still standing by the piano. Her hair and skirt were blowing wildly in the wind, while Autor continued to move his fingers over the keys, a cruel sneer on his face.

The performers onstage were unmoved by the scene. They had stopped now and were blankly staring, as if waiting for their next command.

"Autor, no!" Ahiru screamed. "Don't do it! Whatever you're going to do, just don't!"

Fakir gritted his teeth. "He's too far gone," he said without hope. "Just like I thought before. I was a fool to think different."

"I didn't want to believe it," Mytho said, his eyes filled with worry and fear for Rue. "But if he's going after Rue like this, then I'm afraid you may be right, Fakir. And I can't let him hurt her!" He clenched his teeth. What could he even do? His arms were bound by the wind. He was unable to reach his sword.

A much stronger burst of wind grabbed hold of Rue, lifting her into the air as she screamed. Autor's expression darkened further, as he played with increasingly hate-filled chords. The more he put his energy into the piece he had composed, the vortex swirled tighter around the helpless girl, the top rings drawing closer to her throat. She would be strangled to death.

"I wrote this piece especially for you, Rue!" Autor cried. "I stayed up all night composing it. I've been waiting just for this moment when I could play it for you. It was supposed to be at the end of the public performance, but now is just as good of a time." Yet as he spoke his hands were trembling. His eyes were flickering again, the inner battle obvious.

Rue gazed at him, her own eyes anguished and pleading. "Autor, please," she said, even as the vise began to close in on her oxygen. "Come back to yourself. . . ."

Autor's hands shook harder. Something changed in his expression; against Drosselmeyer's and the Story's predictions, the old Autor was back again, fighting for control. "Rue," he choked out. "No, you can't hurt Rue!" Now panic was filling his eyes. Despite his order, he could not stop playing, nor could he change what he was playing. And there was no time left.

He looked to the letter-opener, which was still on the piano's shelf. He was coming to a short part in the music where he only needed his left hand to play. If he could just time this right. . . . He pulled his right hand away, grabbing hold of the possible weapon. Maybe he would never be able to play the piano again. Right now he did not care. It was the only way he knew to perchance stop the Story.

Gripping the letter-opener tightly, he forced it into the back of his left hand.

Everyone watching gasped. The sharp tool clattered to the floor next to the bench. The injured hand fell away, blood splattering in all directions. His other hand returned to the keys and played on, refusing to stop. But without the effect of all the necessary notes, the Story's power was weakening.

The black mists loosened. Rue gulped in the air, her eyes wide. Even being unable to breathe for only a moment had left her with a deep and lasting gratitude for oxygen.

Autor looked to her, the struggle obvious in his eyes. He was still fighting against his dark side, but moreso, against the very Story itself. It had possessed him altogether the previous night. Ever since then it had been trying to drown him, to keep him from breaking free and preventing it from writing the horror it had planned. But this could not have happened in the first place if he had not given in to his lust for power. Now he and his Story had both become monsters.

"Fakir," he whispered, his voice tortured. "I . . . was wrong. All this time I've been wrong. You were the right one to follow in Drosselmeyer's footsteps. You're much stronger than I am."

Fakir stared at him, seeing his eyes wildly flickering. Had Ahiru been right about something else being partially responsible? It definitely did not look like Autor was in this alone. And his cry of _"No, you can't hurt Rue!"_ reminded Fakir of when Mytho had fought against him due to the Raven's blood poisoning him.

"No!" he yelled. "Keep fighting it!"

Despair began to take hold of his heart. Now they were all completely helpless, suspended above the stage. Were they all going to meet their deaths here? The oak tree had said this was not his Story to write. But it was just fine with Autor writing _this_ Story?!

A crazed gleam flashed, then settled. "If I can't complete the Story one way, I'll complete it another," Autor said. Bringing up his wounded hand, he began to play again. But even if he was going to make himself ignore the pain, the slippery blood made it impossible to continue. Again his hand fell away. He looked at it with distaste, then sneered. Looking directly at the others, he began to hum the missing notes. The bonds tightened once more.

"No!" Rue screamed.

And Autor's heart was pierced. "Rue!" he cried in anguish.

Reaching down with his bleeding hand, he picked up the letter-opener from where it had clattered to the floor. Despite the burning pain in his fingers, he grasped it as tight as he could. He would stab his other hand too.

And then what? Cut out his tongue? He was humming again, without even realizing he had started. No matter how he tried, he could not make himself be quiet.

He could not think; the Story was dominating all his thoughts. The hand holding the letter-opener was violently shaking. Now that he had tried to regain control, forcing his way further to the surface than the Story had ever thought possible, it wanted to rip control away from him altogether. It would not subtly pretend he was in charge this time, as it had done when he had let his dark side dominate his personality. It was making sure he knew it was the master.

He was losing all conscious thought and will. But Rue and the others were going to die in a matter of moments—Rue faster than the others, if she suffocated. He had to do something, anything, to make the Story stop. And as of right now, he could only think of one thing that would stop it in time.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he plunged the letter-opener through his chest and into his heart.

An inhuman roar of rage tore from his lips. His other hand stiffened, shaking, crashing down in one final burst of keys before falling away from the piano. Then he was descending backwards, crashing towards the floor. Rue and Ahiru were both screaming. Somewhere through his clouding vision he could see Fakir and Mytho staring in horror and shock. And as the wind died down and all of them were released, Rue and Ahiru ran to him.

"Autor!" Rue cried, catching him before he would have hit the floor.

He stared up at her, into the garnet eyes filled with pain and anguish and disbelief. "Why?!" she burst out. _"Why?!"_

"It was . . . the only way," he whispered in reply, his voice giving out on the last words.

"No!" Ahiru cried in grief, dropping to her knees next to them. "There would've been another way. There would've . . . there had to be. . . . Autor, don't die! Please don't die!"

Autor gazed at her, seeing her blue eyes filling with tears. After everything he did, someone would still cry for his miserable end? Of course, Ahiru would. She was always so kind, so forgiving. He regretted the pain he was causing her, and Rue, and the others, if they felt it too. He regretted everything he had done over the past months.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "Killing myself ended the Story and . . . saved you. Ahiru. . . . Rue. . . ."

Now Rue's eyes held tears as well. The last image Autor saw was the girl who had never loved him as he had loved her crying, sobbing as if her heart was breaking while she held his dying body.

"_He's dead?!"_ Drosselmeyer gasped, tipping out of his chair. _"And by his own hand?"_ He smirked. _"Well, this is highly unexpected. Show me your grief over your fallen friend, everyone. Show me your sorrow and anger over the one who sacrificed himself to save you!"_

Uzura had been sitting in horror throughout the confrontation. Now, as she stared at the scene in the gear, the tears once again filled her eyes._ "Autor zura,"_ she whispered.


	9. Elegy

**Prompt #10 – **_**Elegy (Mourning, Loss)**_

They buried Autor in the Kinkan Cemetery, near a large pine tree that cast its shadow over every grave in its domain. Rue was quiet, nearly numb from the shock of his death and the circumstances surrounding it. Mytho stayed close to her, his eyes searching hers in concern before looking to Fakir and Ahiru.

Ahiru being Ahiru, she was very emotional. Fakir, by contrast, was stone silent. But his dark expression left Mytho worried. What was going through his old friend's mind?

"This shouldn't have happened," Ahiru sobbed as she laid her flower on the casket. "Why couldn't we do something?! Why couldn't we save him?!"

"Don't waste your tears on him," Fakir muttered. "He got us into this mess. He paid the price to get us out of it."

Ahiru froze. Mytho and Rue were staring at him in stunned surprise. For a moment his words hung in the air.

"How could you say that?!" Ahiru burst out.

". . . Technically, that's true," Mytho said. "But it does sound cold, Fakir. Something happened to Autor that changed him from the person we knew. I think there even was something else controlling him in the theatre, perhaps the Story as Ahiru suggested. Still, in the end, Rue was able to reach the old Autor and bring him back. . . ."

"I was there too," Fakir interrupted. "I know what happened." He looked away. "And what didn't."

Ahiru blinked, taken aback by his last words. "Fakir?"

Fakir clenched a fist. "None of us could save him, no matter what we tried," he said, his voice unmistakably bitter. "He was beyond that."

Ahiru swallowed hard, suddenly realizing. "You tried, didn't you, Fakir? With your writing. . . ."

"It didn't do any good at all!" Fakir slammed his fist into a nearby tree. Ahiru and Mytho flinched. "I wasn't strong enough to save him." He slumped forward, disconsolate.

"Fakir . . ." Ahiru reached for him, slowly drawing him into an embrace from behind. "It's not your fault, Fakir."

"I should have been able to do something," Fakir muttered, his voice tortured. "I'm a Story-Spinner. I'm Drosselmeyer's heir. Why couldn't I change this?!" He was still clenching his fist. Blood began to trickle from the small cuts his fingernails were digging in the palm of his hand.

"I don't know!" Ahiru cried. "You've been able to change things, Fakir. Just . . . just not this time. . . ."

Rue frowned, gripping her arms. ". . . He thought he was writing what he wanted, but it was what the Story wanted all along," she said, her voice husky.

"Drosselmeyer was strong enough to overcome all of that," Fakir growled. "He wrote whatever he wanted!"

"And look where it got him in the end," Mytho said, his voice quiet.

Fakir sank down on a stone bench, one hand covering his face. Ahiru sat next to him, tears in her eyes. There were no words left to say, on any of their parts. There was only the grief they all felt, at having lost a dear friend without being able to do a thing to stop it.

****

Autor stared at the scene before him in astonishment and guilt as he plunged through space and time. It was really not what he had thought the afterlife would be like at all. Gears of all sizes surrounded him, reflecting the scene in the cemetery as well as the events leading up to and including his death. Rue was holding his dying body and screaming for him again, the tears in her eyes as she demanded to know _why._ Autor's soul ached for her, hating the pain he had caused her and the others.

_So this is what my desire for power caused,_ he said in silence. _I hurt them so much and in the end, I could only hurt them again to stop myself . . . and the Story I created with my own hands._

He swore in desperation and anguish. "I wanted to better the world. How did I come to this pathetic end?"

He stared upward at the turning and moving gears as he passed beyond them. Then, abruptly, he landed on a gear that was lying horizontal and still. He gasped in surprise at the sudden end to his fall. There was no picture in this mechanism, nothing else for him to view in horror and grief and guilt.

But there was a small form staring at him from the other side of the gear. It let out a sob, running across the expanse of the metal until it came into his full view.

His eyes widened in shock. "You're . . . that child," he said. None of them had known what had happened to her at the end of Drosselmeyer's Story; she had simply vanished, and in spite of his and Fakir's and Ahiru's efforts, they had not been able to locate her. After being told of her origins, he had hypothesized that she had been returned to Drosselmeyer, and Fakir and Ahiru had accepted that, wanting to believe that she was safe wherever she was.

Uzura hugged him around his leg, much to his further astonishment. "Why?" she sobbed. "Why did you do it, Autor zura? Why did you come here zura?"

Uncomfortable, he just stood and watched her, unsure of what to even say or do. "I don't know why I'm here," he said then. "I don't know why I did any of what I did. Except . . ." He took a deep breath, knowing that he was speaking the truth. "I ended my life to save Rue, and Ahiru, and Fakir and the Prince, too. I didn't know another way to stop myself in time."

He had never been in the habit of talking to Uzura, and he certainly had not planned to share this with her now. He had spoken mainly to himself, to try to reassure himself that he had done the right thing, that he had done all he knew how to do even though it would grieve them.

"You're the real Autor zura," Uzura whispered. "The old man was wrong. You came back zura."

Autor blinked. "What old man?!" he demanded. _Could she mean . . ._

But Uzura just shook her head. "I wanted to see you again zura," she said. "But everyone else is so sad without you zura. I didn't want to see you like this zura."

Autor clenched a fist. He had never wanted to see himself become as wretched as he had over the past months. Even if the Story had guided him, it had not seized absolute control until the very end. It had been him doing everything before that. He would not use the excuse that it was only his dark side; it was still himself.

"Why did this happen?" he could not help asking aloud, beseeching whatever divine being was around to hear him. "How did everything go so wrong?"

"Why? How?" An old voice, gravelly yet with a certain smooth quality, spoke out of the distance ahead. "You should know; it was all your doing, Autor, my boy!"

He looked about, adjusting his glasses as he searched for the speaker. "Hello?" he called. "Who's here?"

"Oh? You don't know?" A man with long white hair and wild red eyes appeared, grinning at the astonished teen. "With all your research, I would have thought the answer would be obvious."

"Mr. Drosselmeyer," Autor gasped. He knew the man from portraits, but it was more than that. Somehow he just sensed the great Story-Spinner's presence. He had felt it ever since being thrust into this world, and had suspected it after Uzura's words, yet he had not dared to actually hope. And his horror over what he had done to the others had eclipsed all other feelings.

"I . . . I never thought I would actually meet you," Autor stammered now.

"No, indeed," Drosselmeyer mused. "I wasn't expecting our meeting to take place, either." He grinned again, enjoying this far too much. "But now that you're here, let's have a little fun with it, shall we?"

Autor shook his head. "I've done horrible things," he said. "I'm not even worthy to . . ."

"Horrible things?" Drosselmeyer interrupted. "You've really been writing quite the tragedy, Autor, my boy. I've been enjoying myself watching it unfold. I must say, I wasn't expecting these last twists. Not at all! Killing yourself to stop the power of the Story and save your friends. A desperate move. A most desperate move."

Autor flinched. Even though he knew of Drosselmeyer's love of tragedies, and had studied them all of his life, this still dug deep.

"You were watching everything?!" he exclaimed. "And enjoying it?! I'm ashamed of what I've done. I was hurting people! I was hurting the only ones who ever tried to reach out to me. I gave my life to save them, but I died with Rue's and Ahiru's tears seared into my mind. Rue was crying for me, someone she never even loved."

"Yes, yes, I know!" Drosselmeyer said. "Such a terrible thing. You fell into corruption so well and redeemed yourself so tragically." He crossed his arms. "But I'm sorry, my boy, I'm afraid I can't acknowledge you as having surpassed me."

Autor's cheeks flamed to remember the words he had exclaimed in his madness. Or had that been the Story itself proclaiming it? Either way, it was a disgrace. "I wasn't myself," he said. "I don't even know why I said . . ." He trailed off. What was the use of even having this conversation? Drosselmeyer had seen everything; he knew the truth.

"I saw them burying me," he said instead. "How is that possible? Have I actually been dead that long? It hasn't felt like more than a few minutes."

"Welcome to a gap in time," Drosselmeyer proclaimed with a smirk. "You were seeing the future. Yes, you've only been gone from your mortal shell a scant five minutes. _This_ is what is actually happening right now." Another gear appeared, this one showing the theatre where Autor had been playing his final composition.

Autor stiffened at the sight. Rue had laid his body on the stage and was bending over him, desperate in her search to find some sign of life. Ahiru was kneeling next to her, still unable to stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks. Mytho was by Rue, looking worried both for her and for Ahiru, as well as sorrowful over Autor's fate. Fakir stood to the side, gripping his arms. He looked haunted.

"Oh, he hasn't tried to write you back yet," Drosselmeyer said. "He's about to, you know. The pain and the grief are building within his heart, threatening to overflow. He never wanted this to happen."

Autor stared, trembling. "_I_ never wanted this to happen," he whispered.

Abruptly Fakir turned. "I'll be right back," he said, vanishing behind the red curtain leading backstage.

Ahiru looked up with a start, her blue eyes wide. "Fakir! . . ." she called, but in vain.

Behind the curtain, Fakir sank to his knees, pulling his writing materials out of the satchel he was carrying with him. His hands were shaking, his green eyes filled with agony. He could barely grip the quill properly and dip it in the ink without spilling the substance everywhere.

"'Autor was . . . he wasn't dead,'" he choked out, reciting the words he wanted to put on the paper. But when he tried to force his hand to write them, his hand quaked even more. Ink blotted on the sheet.

"'He wasn't dead!'" he screamed, his voice rising in his desperation. "'There was still a chance to save him!'" But his hand refused to cooperate. The quill broke in half, the bottom part skittering across the parchment to fall to the wooden floor.

Fakir let out a strangled cry. He threw the holder to the floor, papers flying in all directions. He barely paid attention. Instead he dug his fingers into his hair, slumping forward in grief and guilt.

Autor's soul was pierced. He reached out for his distant cousin, though he knew it was in vain. "Fakir . . ." This was horrible! How could Drosselmeyer sit back and enjoy watching it, as if all of them were characters in a book and not real?! Was that all they were to him? Had he written tragedies for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to care about people?

It was easy enough to understand how it could have happened. In his darkest moments, Autor had not cared, either. He had only cared about achieving his goal at all costs. At least he _had_ remembered his true self off and on throughout this nightmare, albeit he had not regained control in enough time to save himself as well as his friends. But Drosselmeyer . . . if he had ever had a side that truly felt for people, he had lost it long ago. And it horrified Autor to realize that he could have ended up the same.

The red curtain parted, revealing a worried Ahiru and Mytho. The Prince's eyes were filled with sadness as he went in and sat beside his Knight. "Fakir . . ." He laid a hand on Fakir's shoulder.

The other boy stiffened under his grasp. "I can't change this," he rasped. "It was stupid. . . . I thought for a moment that . . . that maybe I could. . . . I had to try. . . ."

Ahiru's tears spilled over again. She dropped down on Fakir's other side, impulsively hugging him close. He let her embrace him for a moment before suddenly grabbing her and pulling her all the nearer to him.

"It must not be supposed to be changed," Mytho said softly.

"And why not?!" Fakir snarled. "He turned the world upsidedown. He should at least have to stay alive and fix it."

Autor clenched a fist. "Yes," he agreed from Drosselmeyer's world. "Yes, I should have to. It's only right. I made them suffer for months. They shouldn't have to suffer any longer because of me!"

"Oh? And how will you get yourself back?" Drosselmeyer sounded amused. "You plunged that letter-opener into your heart. There's no going back from that."

"If it just hadn't gone in," Autor said, his fist still tight and shaking. "If it missed by even a fraction of an inch, my heart would still be whole. And then maybe I'd have a chance."

"Hmm." Drosselmeyer placed a hand on his chin, as if in thought. "Well, you were highly upset. Your aim could have easily been off."

Uzura's eyes widened. She had not thought of that.

Autor whirled to look at Drosselmeyer, a pleading hope in his eyes. "My writing skills were not skills at all," he said. "I know I don't even have the right to ask, but . . . would you send me back? You could write me alive, couldn't you?"

But to his surprise, Drosselmeyer only chuckled. "I'm sorry, Autor my boy. That's a power I don't have. Not even the Story-Spinners can bring back the dead." He shrugged. "I'm afraid you're just going to have to get used to this."

Autor rocked back, both his shock and his discouragement heavy. But then his eyes burned again. "No!" he cried. "I won't accept that. I _will_ get back. I have to! I can't leave them like this!"

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you plunged the letter-opener into your chest, eh?" Drosselmeyer said, clearly still enjoying himself. "But I must say, I'm glad you didn't. It was such a dramatic moment."

And Autor's patience snapped. He had never thought, never imagined, that this meeting would take place. And he had certainly never dreamed that their conversation would take this vein. But after all that he had done, he could not make his distraught words be silent.

"Do you ever think of anything but your own sick enjoyment, Mr. Drosselmeyer?!" he cried, his brown eyes flashing in anguish. "I at least wanted to better the world, even after the Story corrupted me. But you! Did you ever want anything other than to tell your Stories and bring them to life, no matter who was hurt?"

Something unreadable flickered in Drosselmeyer's eyes. But then it was gone and he smirked at the boy. "I felt the same thing you did, long ago," he said. "I felt the Stories calling to me. I felt the thrill as what I wrote came to life before my eyes. You can't tell me you didn't feel it too, Autor, my boy."

Autor flinched. "Yes, I did," he admitted. "It was thrilling . . . thrilling unlike anything else I've ever experienced. And it was like a drug; I couldn't get enough. I always wanted more. I tried to stop myself, but I . . . I couldn't. Part of me even stopped caring about the world after a while. I just wanted the power."

Drosselmeyer gave a thoughtful nod. "If you hadn't ended up possessed by your own Story, I wonder what you would have done then," he mused. "Would you have kept on down the path you were taking and overthrown the world? Would little Ahiru and the others have managed to get through to you and you would have ended your reign without ending your life too? Oh, the possibilities are endless."

Autor stared at him. "You actually do think of everyone as characters in stories, don't you," he said.

"It's nothing personal, but that's exactly what they are to me," Drosselmeyer said with a shrug. "It's what _you_ are to me." He gave Autor a mocking sneer. "And I can see that you could never hope to write on that level. You rely too much on your feelings and your heart. Oops, you don't still have one of those!"

Autor gritted his teeth. "I don't want to write on that level," he said. "I've walked down a dark path for far too long. That isn't who I am! It isn't who I'll ever be. I want to return to the light."

Drosselmeyer gave a long, exaggerated sigh. "Then I'm sorry, Autor my boy, but I'm afraid this is where we part ways." He smirked. "If you had wanted, I would have invited you to stay here with me, spinning new tales."

For a moment Autor wavered, unable to deny the pull of the temptation. But then he shook his head, taking a step back. "I'm sorry too," he said. "It would never work. I won't write like you, Mr. Drosselmeyer. If I can help it, I won't ever throw anyone into horrible situations like you do."

Drosselmeyer shrugged. "Oh well, it was worth a try, anyway," he said. "Come, Uzura." He leaped off the gear and onto one whose teeth were moving up. "Goodbye for now. I don't expect we'll meet again."

Uzura looked from Drosselmeyer to Autor, conflicted. At last she stepped back from Autor, her dark blue eyes earnest as she spoke. "I hope you can go back zura," she said. "Please try zura!" She stepped onto another gear, albeit not the one Drosselmeyer was riding.

"I don't even know how . . ." Autor trailed off as without warning the gear on which he was standing began to tip. He gasped, a cry of shock tearing from his lips as his balance was lost. All attempts at clawing the smooth metal failed. Then he was plunging down, down, into nothingness.

****

He did not know how long he had been falling. He had long ago lost track of time. And though he still wanted to get back to the others, he did not know how to accomplish it. There was no way out of this void. No matter how he called and pleaded and prayed, the darkness remained. Was this his Hell? Was this the eternal damnation he had earned for the manipulative writing he had done?

"What is this place?" he cried. "At least tell me that! Tell me if there's any way out!"

Instead, the echoes of his friends' voices reached him—grief-stricken and heart-broken.

"What's done is done," Fakir said. Now he sounded bitter, like in the vision of the future in the cemetery. "Let's just take him and go."

"We all tried to save him," Rue was saying, her voice harsh as well. "Don't take all the blame for yourself, Fakir."

Ahiru was still crying. "If only it could've been different," she said. "There could have been another way, couldn't there? Autor wouldn't have had to . . . to . . ."

"I don't know," Mytho said.

Autor clawed in vain at the pressing darkness around him. "This isn't right," he said. "I wanted to protect them, not curse them!"

"Dying for someone you love is a curse on them, isn't it?"

He looked up with a start at the unfamiliar voice. "Who's there?" he demanded. "What do you mean?"

The voice, a melancholy woman, spoke again. "The ones you sacrifice for will have to go through their lives knowing what happened and taking the blame on themselves. That is a curse they should never have to bear."

"Sometimes there's no choice but to give your life," a man said now. "But that doesn't mean there won't be long-lasting consequences."

Suddenly there was a light forming in the darkness. Autor shielded his eyes, stunned as a translucent man and woman appeared before him. He knew them from somewhere, but only vaguely, and at the moment he could not put his finger on it.

"Autor," said the man, "you can still go back."

Autor's eyes widened. "How?!" he demanded. "How do you know that's possible?"

The woman smiled, though it looked sad. "Drosselmeyer did tell you a truth, hidden among his falsehoods," she said. "You didn't pierce your heart. The shock of the blade hitting so close to it killed you, but with a lot of care you could still recover. If you focus every bit of your will on going back to your body, you will do it." She gave a slight nod. "I can't deny I envy you a bit, Autor. You have a chance we don't. Our bodies were too badly damaged to return to them when we died, even if we would have been allowed."

Autor stared, first at her, then at the man. Was this real? It was not just something he imagined up in his mind, was it? Something he wanted so badly he was envisioning it coming true?

"Why?" he said at last. "Why would I get this chance after everything I did that hurt others?"

The man laid a hand on his shoulder. "To make it right," he said simply.

The woman smiled again and clasped the man's hand as they began to fade. "Say hello to Fakir for us," she said.

"And that we're proud of him," the man added.

Autor watched as they vanished. "Fakir?" he whispered in confusion.

He would figure it out later. He closed his eyes, concentrating with all his might. He had to return.

****

Rue pushed herself up from where she had been bending over Autor's lifeless body. It was no use; he was gone. She had known the instant it had happened, really. She had felt the life leaving him. But still, in desperation she had tried to search for any possible way to save him.

The ballerinas and danseurs, unsure of anything that had happened or even why they were there now that the Story had ended, had awkwardly and in bewilderment asked if they could help, to which Fakir had told them that no one could help now and that they should just go home. Judging from the confused murmur outside, the crowd was doing the same. The quartet was left alone with their former comrade's corpse.

"In the end, though we tried to save him, it was he who saved all of us," Mytho said, his voice quiet. "And yet . . . would it have been possible if he hadn't been faced with such a horrific scenario as our imminent deaths? He might have sunk deeper into his madness otherwise. In some way, maybe we saved him after all. Or at least Rue did."

Fakir stiffened. _There are many ways to save._ Was this what the oak tree had meant? Had it known things would be brought to this end? He did not want to accept that this had been the fate meant for them!

He gripped his arms. "It should have ended different," he said, his voice dark and bitter. "To 'save' him only so he could descend into death isn't what I had in mind at all." He looked down. "I wondered if I would be forced to kill him to end this. But he beat me to it."

Ahiru froze at Fakir's words, though she had really expected them, at least in part. "Maybe if . . . if we could have found something in those books, we could have stopped this from happening," she choked out. _Maybe if Fakir had written me becoming Princess Tutu again, we could have . . ._ But the thought trailed into nothingness as she gazed at Rue and at Mytho. It would have been too great a risk.

A dark shadow fell across all of them. With a collective start they looked up, only to be faced with the Bookmen's leader. He stood to the side on the stage, his eyes haunted, his axe gripped in his hand. Several other cloaked figures came onto the stage behind him, each holding an axe of his own.

Ahiru sprang to her feet. "What are you going to do?!" she cried.

"That boy spun a Story that led the entire world on an abominable path," the old man said. "He even controlled my mind and those of the other Bookmen. We were completely oblivious to any of what was happening or whom we were serving. But now the spell has been broken and our memories are restored. His hands are far too dangerous to leave where they are now."

"He's already dead!" Ahiru wailed, as Rue and Mytho stared in shock. "He isn't any threat to you now."

"We don't want to take any chances." The Bookman's eyes flashed. "He could be even more dangerous than Drosselmeyer."

Fakir stepped forward, his eyes and voice cold. "He ended his own life to stop himself, when he couldn't find any other way," he said. "Drosselmeyer had no desire to stop what he was doing. Therefore, I still say Drosselmeyer was the bigger threat. Leave Autor's hands alone."

The Bookmen's leader looked to Fakir, his visage only darkening. "And you could not even stop him," he said. "You are supposed to be Drosselmeyer's heir, yet you were unable to do a thing. How can we trust it is safe to leave you alive, either?"

The color drained from Ahiru's face. "No!" she cried. "You won't hurt Fakir. I won't let you!"

"None of us will," Mytho said, drawing his sword from its sheath.

All of the Bookmen looked to him in surprise. "The Prince from Drosselmeyer's Story," exclaimed the leader, focused on the two swans carved on the weapon's hilt. "How are you able to still exist in this world?"

"I haven't fully determined that yet," Mytho said. "But the _how_ doesn't really matter to me, just as long as I am able to be here."

Rue stood as well, her eyes narrowed in determination. Fakir was still not one of her favorite people, and she doubted he ever would be, but she would not let such harm befall him. Especially knowing how it would crush and devastate Ahiru and Mytho.

It was at this precarious moment that Autor's eyes weakly opened. He gasped, the burning pain from the wound immediately sweeping over his senses. Rue had removed the letter-opener during her desperate examination of him, and with his uninjured hand he reached up, clamping his hand over the injury.

The Bookmen's leader stared at him, going sheet-white. "He's alive!" he said in horror.

All eyes turned to the wounded boy in disbelief. "Autor!" Rue cried, dropping to her knees next to him. "Someone call the medics. There's still a chance to save his life!" She leaned over, looking frantically into Autor's glazed eyes. "Autor, can you hear me?"

He looked to her, showing recognition, but he could not speak. He breathed heavily, gripping the wound as blood seeped through his fingers.

All of the Bookmen raised their axes. "This can't happen!" cried the leader. "After what he's done, he can't be left alive."

"They should both be killed!" said another, looking to Fakir, who was still reeling over the news that Autor had came back to life. "None of Drosselmeyer's heirs should be left to start Spinning dangerous Stories."

And Ahiru was overwhelmed in her horror. _"NO!"_ she screamed, positioning herself in front of both Fakir and Autor.

Fakir stared at her. "Idiot, get out of their way!" he cried. "If you resist, they'll kill you too!"

But then no one could speak. A bright light burst forth from Ahiru's body, sending everyone stumbling back. When it dimmed enough to look upon her, a collective gasp echoed around the stage.

"Princess Tutu!" uttered the Bookmen's leader.

Fakir was in disbelief. "Ahiru," he rasped. "How?" For the girl standing in determination before them truly was Princess Tutu in all her glory, just as they remembered her. He looked over at Mytho. Would he find his friend sprawled on the floor, nothing more than a doll once again? But no—the prince seemed perfectly well. He was staring as well, his mouth open in astonishment. Rue's eyes were wide as well.

The Bookmen got to their feet. "Princess Tutu should not be able to appear any more now that Drosselmeyer's Story has ended," said the leader. "Now that she has, we do not know what to believe." He stepped back. "We will do nothing for now, except to observe as we attempt to solve this phenomenon. However." His eyes narrowed as he looked to Autor's barely conscious form, then to Fakir. "We will not allow any more grievous Stories to be born. If he tries again to seize control of the world, we will have to end his life. And you may not be safe then, either."

Fakir nodded. "I understand," he said coldly. "I want to solve this as much as you do."

The Bookmen departed into the shadows. Ahiru gasped, falling to her knees as her tutu and toe-shoes again became her turtleneck and shorts. The sudden, mysterious transformation had drained her. But Fakir and Autor were safe. She gave a weak, shaking smile as she collapsed the rest of the way. That was what was important.

"Ahiru!" Fakir cried, running to her in alarm. He gathered the unconscious girl in his arms, holding her close.

Mytho stared, conflicted. He wanted to go over as well. But instead he sheathed his sword and hastened to place the call to the medics. In all the commotion, no one had seen to that yet.

Rue bent over Autor again, using a handkerchief in an attempt to slow the bleeding of his wounds. "Just hold on," she said, her voice coming out somewhat harsh in her worry. "You're going to live and be alright, Autor. Do you hear me?"

Autor looked at her, the recognition still clear in his eyes before they slipped closed in his growing unconsciousness.

"_Well, well. This was certainly a series of twists!" _Drosselmeyer declared. _"Autor is alive again and Princess Tutu has reappeared."_ He grinned. _"The Story isn't over yet, is it. Or perhaps, one Story is making way for another. The end is the beginning, eh, Edel and Uzura?"_

He blinked at the silence that followed. _"Uzura?"_ He frowned, looking around for the inquisitive child. But she was nowhere to be found.

His eyebrows narrowed further. _"Don't tell me she's hiding from me,"_ he muttered in frustration. _"Or . . ."_ His eyes widened in shock. _"No, she couldn't have escaped back to Kinkan Town with Autor, could she?!"_ He searched the image in the gear. There was no sign of her in the theatre, but that did not mean she was not there.

At last he shrugged and leaned back. _"Oh well, she will turn up sooner or later, either here or there,"_ he said. _"And it would make quite an interesting addition if she appeared there!"_ He grinned. _"I'm looking forward to whatever happens next. Tell me a story, everyone. And make it another good one. After all, the tension is far from over. You're still conflicted, aren't you, Fakir? I wonder if you and Autor can ever make things right between you."_

He laughed.


	10. Senza

**Prompt #15 –**_** Senza (Can't Do Without)**_

"_This wound is serious. He's just lucky it missed his heart. Still . . ." _The man heaved a sigh. _"I'm sorry, I honestly don't think he'll live through the night. I'll do what I can, but I'm afraid you shouldn't expect very much."_

"_No!"_ Ahiru cried. _"Autor already was dead and he came back. He's not going to let this beat him. He's going to make it. And he has all of us to stand by him."_

"_Alright then,"_ the doctor conceded. _"I'll get to work."_

****

It was strange, how he could hear them through his haze and yet not communicate with them. It was as if it was all in a dream; though he knew it was not a dream at all, just his own illness. Their voices faded in and out, sometimes audible, sometimes too far-off to make out anything intelligible.

He felt his chest wound being worked on as the physician tried to repair all the damage that he had caused to himself. He cringed, gasping in pain. The doctor exclaimed something in concern about the anesthesia wearing off too soon. Then he passed back into oblivion, leaving them to do whatever it was they were doing with him.

There were times when he was falling through the endless gears again. Sometimes his descent never stopped. Sometimes the gears closed in, crushing him in their midst. Still other times he avoided the gears altogether, but plunged into the fires of Hell far below.

He screamed as the flames lapped at and tore at him. It was the only fate he deserved, the miserable wretch who had lost control of his darkest emotions and of his very Story itself. But the longer the fire consumed him, the more he cried out in anguish for deliverance.

There were times when he thought he heard the others talking to him, trying to call him back. Though it was often Rue he heard, Ahiru was also frequently pleading for him to return.

"_Wake up, Autor,"_ she begged. _"Everything's okay. You're right here with us! Please wake up and you'll see!"_

And something warm would take hold of his uninjured hand, clasping it firmly to lead him out of the personal Hell he had built for himself. Yet no matter how he tried, he could not seem to follow.

The Prince himself had spoken to him several times. _"I know it must be difficult, Autor, but I also know you can come through this. You never stopped fighting against your inner demons and the Story before; you won't stop now. Come back, Autor. Come back to the light."_

Fakir never spoke to him, but he heard Fakir talking—and sometimes arguing—with the others about it.

"_What could I tell him that you haven't already said? We never were close."_

"_I've never even had a real conversation with him, Fakir,"_ Mytho replied. _"But I'm talking to him now."_

"_You're better at it than me."_

"_Ohh! You just don't want to talk to him because you're still mad at him!"_ Ahiru exclaimed.

"_Can you blame me?! True, Autor may have been taken over by his Story in the end, but he made his own choices that got him to that point. He made the decision to try to get hold of the power he wanted. That's what caused all of this."_

And then Rue had gotten angry. _"Haven't you ever done something you regretted?"_ she said.

"_Not on a scale like this,"_ Fakir said. _"I never tried to take over the world."_

"_Is that what's really bothering you, Fakir?"_ Mytho asked, his voice quiet.

"_Of course it is,"_ Fakir said, but he sounded unsure of himself and defensive.

"_And I suppose you still haven't forgiven me, either, have you?"_ Rue said.

"_Now that you bring it up, I am still angry about a lot of the stunts you pulled,"_ Fakir shot back.

And then they fell into another of their heated arguments, while Mytho and Ahiru desperately tried to restore peace. They were all stressed and worried and upset about Autor, and it was taking its toll on all of them.

Listening from the dark place where he currently resided, Autor was awash with guilt. He had to get back somehow. He could not let things keep going on in this way. The Prince had told him to come back to the light, but he was not even sure how to find that light. For him, he felt as though he had lost it completely and had fallen too far to ever hope to return.

His friends, however, still had the light. Perhaps, if he focused all of his attention on their voices, could they draw him into it? He was willing to try. He wanted to leave the flames behind, to return to them and try to put his life back in order. He wanted to somehow make peace with them . . . and with himself.

The next time he felt something warm and comforting take hold of his hand, he grasped it in turn and did not let go. He did not allow his thoughts to stray; instead he thought only of going back and what he wanted to do when he got there. And as he had hoped, he was at last pulled upward and out of his abyss.

His eyes fluttered open, taking in what looked like a blurred ceiling above him. It was really quite dull and predictable, filled with those tiny holes that children always threw pencils at. Then a flash of red and blue appeared, leaning over and blocking his view of the tiles.

"Autor!" Ahiru exclaimed. "You're awake. Thank goodness, you're awake!" She leaned over and embraced him, holding him close in her light.

He let her hug him, too surprised to do much else. "Ahiru," he rasped.

He was back.

****

He recovered well, and quickly, he was told; though it seemed a long time to him, he had not been expected to live at all. And of course the medics had not been told what had actually happened. That would have made the situation far too sticky. As far as they knew, Autor's injuries had been a terrible accident. That was just fine with him; he did not want them knowing he had stabbed himself and have them worry that he needed suicide counseling or some such thing.

Somewhat to his surprise, he shared conversations with the others over the following weeks. Ahiru talked too much, as always, but she was overjoyed that Autor would get better. Autor usually felt somewhat overwhelmed after one of their visits, but he thought of Ahiru as a friend and usually tried to be patient—though he was quick to tell her if he needed quiet.

"Ahiru," he said one day, "I've been having strange memories of something that happened the night I died."

She blinked in surprise. "Oh yeah? What's that?" she asked.

"Tell me honestly," he said. "Is this just something I hallucinated, or did you become Princess Tutu?"

And Ahiru stiffened, looking amazed that he had been aware enough to realize that much of what had happened. She shifted in the chair.

"Y-yeah, I did," she said. "We're still trying to figure out how it happened. I mean, I'm not supposed to be able to become Princess Tutu anymore, even though I think of her as a part of me, and . . ."

"And Mytho and Rue are still remembered in the town, aren't they?" Autor said.

Ahiru nodded. "People are remembering more and more all the time," she said. "None of us can figure out why! Before long, maybe they'll even start remembering the really creepy stuff, like turning into crows and . . ." She trailed off, not wanting to bring up Mytho and Kraehe trying to steal hearts for the Monster Raven.

Autor frowned. "Then it really wasn't something I caused unknowingly," he said.

"Nope!" Ahiru said. "At least, I don't think so." She hopped to her feet. "It's great to have them back, anyway!" she said. "And I'm so glad you're back too, Autor." She smiled. "I've missed you."

Autor hesitated. "Ahiru," he said at last.

She blinked in surprise. "Yeah, what is it?"

"After I was brought here, I was lost in the dark turmoil of my own soul," Autor admitted. "I couldn't find my way out of it. When I finally did, it was because I was following your light. Thank you."

Ahiru blushed. "Autor . . ." Then she smiled. "Even if you were following me, you made the choice yourself!" she declared. "You figured out how to escape."

Autor considered that, then gave a slow nod. "I suppose."

"It's true!" Ahiru said firmly.

"I just wonder," Autor said. "You forgave me so easily, but . . . can I ever forgive myself?"

Again Ahiru looked surprised. But she smiled once more, brighter still. "You can," she said. "You'll figure out how to do that, too."

"I wish I had your confidence," Autor said.

****

Rue and Mytho were pleased over his improvement as well, though certainly more reserved. He had not spoken with the Prince very often, but he considered it a great honor whenever Mytho stopped in to say Hello.

"Rue said she told you about our past," Mytho said on one occasion.

Autor nodded. "She did," he said, his stomach knotting to remember how he had treated her that day in the theatre.

Mytho nodded. "After being poisoned by the Raven's blood, I understand all too well what it's like to have to fight against something taking you over," he said, his voice grave. "At my worst, I didn't care about anyone. I even fought against Fakir." A haunted look flashed through his eyes. "I was only barely able to stop myself in time."

"At least you were able to stop yourself," Autor said. "And at least you were fighting against a parasite, an intruder from outside. For the most part, I was fighting myself."

"Sometimes I wonder," Mytho said, gazing into the distance, "whether the Raven's blood just awakened my dark side and emphasized it. I know it attacked the weak spots of my heart."

"I can't imagine you actually being that way, Prince," Autor said.

"Just 'Mytho' is fine," Mytho smiled, then sobered again. "No, I couldn't imagine it of myself, either. It was too horrifying to imagine that I was capable of such abominable acts. Yet the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that it would be all too easy to blame the Raven's blood and exempt myself. I don't believe anymore that it was only the Raven's blood at fault.

"But as for you, Autor, you blame only yourself. I think, since the Story became its own entity, you can't fully be held responsible for your actions."

"It wouldn't have become a separate being if I hadn't written it," Autor said.

"You couldn't have known it would get so out of hand," Mytho said. "Your original plan was to do good with the power, wasn't it?"

Autor nodded. "Yes. . . . But I lost sight of it."

Mytho's smile was kind and gentle. "That doesn't mean," he said, "that you can't find it again."

Autor started. "No," he said. "No, I won't expose myself to that again. It's too big a risk."

"I understand your fear," Mytho said. "But fearing power may not be healthy, either. And despite what you've believed for years, the Story-Spinning ability is in your blood. I don't believe it would have been given to you if there wasn't something worthwhile you could do with it."

Autor looked towards the window, at the oncoming twilight. "Maybe," he said. "If I can ever trust myself with it."

****

The first time he spoke with Rue after he awakened, he attempted to apologize to her for what he had done to her.

"I remember when you came to see me in my office," he rasped, drinking from a glass of water that sat on the table by the bed. "I didn't want to hurt you then. I don't know why I ever did. . . ."

But she shook her head. "You don't need to explain yourself," she said, in the quiet and mature and perfectly composed voice he still lovingly played back in his mind. "Our darkness has a way of warping what we want. We rationalize things, even if we know somewhere in our hearts that they're wrong, because we long for something so desperately. If we're not careful, we can lose ourselves altogether."

"I should have been stronger than that," Autor lamented. "It's ironic; I warned Fakir of the dangers of Story-Spinning, yet when it came to myself I lowered my guard. I invited my dark side to take control at the prospect of power." He pushed his glasses up on his face. "I was weak."

"You were strong enough to never allow yourself to be completely consumed, either by your darkest feelings or by the Story you created," Rue said. "It takes a person with a great will to do that. And a beautiful heart."

Autor flushed. "Rue. . . ."

She allowed a bit of a smile, though it was tinged with a melancholy air. "You'll make someone a good husband someday, Autor," she said. "I'm sorry it can't be me."

"Rue, you don't need to say that," Autor said. It still hurt, to be honest, to be reminded that Rue could never be his. But he had to accept that, even to move on sometime. Yet he knew he still was not ready. The closure he had sought still had not come.

"Maybe someday," he agreed, "I'll find someone. But for now, I . . ." He looked deeply into her surprised red-violet eyes. "I want to keep loving you. I can take happiness in knowing that you're happy."

Rue stared at him, the emotions flickering through her eyes and across her face. "Autor . . ." she said at last. Sometimes the depth of his feelings still amazed her. One did not get over a lifetime of verbal and emotional abuse quickly. Every day, Mytho awed her with his love. And Autor, the one who had loved her when Mytho had not remembered how to love, who loved her still even after she had told him all of her darkest secrets, who actually had given his life for her, at least in part . . . yes, he amazed and awed her, too.

"It's alright," Autor said. "I'll be alright. It's what I want."

At last Rue nodded. "If you feel that way, then I won't try to discourage you," she said. "I just hope that you won't spend all your life like that."

And he had told her that he would not, though he really did not know for sure. It was almost impossible to picture himself loving someone other than Rue.

****

Fakir continued to remain aloof. The only times he really spoke to Autor at all were when he came to get Ahiru to go home or to bring messages to Mytho, and more rarely, Rue. Autor had attempted to talk with Fakir himself, but had failed. In any case, he really preferred that they speak in private, anyway. More than with the others, there were issues they needed to resolve.

It was only after Autor was well enough to return to his home that he discovered the reason for Fakir's behavior. Fakir came over one day, claiming to be checking on him for Ahiru. Their conversation remained tense and eerily polite, as though each knew exactly what he wanted to say but was refraining to see what the other would do first. And as Autor had expected and predicted, the short-tempered Fakir was the one to snap.

"I just have one more thing I want to say," he said at last, his voice taut and his eyes steel.

Autor stood up straight, one hand on his hip. "Then by all means, say it," he said. "I think we're both tired of this charade, aren't we?"

And Fakir lunged, striking him across the face. "What were you _thinking?!_" he snarled. "What in the name of all that's holy and good were you _thinking?!_"

Autor stumbled back, his head snapping to the side. He was only momentarily stunned, though Fakir's physical assault had surprised him. But as he looked back to the conflicted Story-Spinner, pushing up his glasses, the truth was laid bare in Fakir's eyes. He had wanted to snap and say it from the beginning, to scream it, but he had restrained himself, fearing Autor would not be able to handle the stress of the attack. And, doubting his own inability to hold himself back if they started to converse, he had steered clear of any discussion with his distant relation. Only now, that he was sure Autor was well enough, did he let loose with what had been consuming him for weeks.

Autor met Fakir's intense and tormented look with a quiet acceptance. He was a proud person by nature, yet what he had caused had shaken him to his very core. And there, as he stood facing his former ally, he bit back any possibly arrogant retort he could have made and would have made in any other situation.

"I wasn't thinking," he answered, quietly and simply. "I was overcome by all that I longed for and desired for ever since I was a child. I won't make excuses for myself; the Story may have warped my mind and taken complete control of me by the end, but it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't let it."

Fakir's eyes widened in surprise at Autor's frank admission. ". . . I wasn't talking about that," he said.

"Then what were you talking about?" Autor retorted.

"I'm talking about what you did at the theatre. What you did to stop yourself, or the Story, or whatever it was." Fakir clenched a trembling fist at his side.

"I see." Autor continued to look at Fakir, not wavering. "I didn't want to do it. I was panicked; you and the others were restrained and Rue was being choked to death. I believed I could win against my Story, but I was afraid it would take too much time. It was already clouding my senses. I could barely think at all, to be honest. I was afraid I'd come back to myself to find all of you dead. I did the only thing I knew I could."

"And did you ever think about how we would feel, helplessly watching you die after we had tried to bring you back?!" Fakir shot back. "Did that ever occur to you?"

"Yes, it did." Autor crossed his arms. "What would you have wanted me to do, Fakir—take the time to fight the Story, only for it to not be in time to save you and the others?"

Fakir gritted his teeth. "I don't know," he said, turning away.

"Rue would not have lasted much longer. You know that."

"I know."

Autor hesitated. He could not very well leave things as they were, but he did not know if he could fix this problem. He and Fakir had never been very close, as Fakir had said to Mytho and the others. But Fakir had been very deeply affected by everything that had transpired. Whether that was because of his determination to protect in general or because of how he felt about Autor personally, however, Autor did not know.

"Fakir," he said at last. "I know you tried to write me back."

Fakir went stiff. "What?!" He whirled around to look at Autor, flabbergasted by this announcement. "How could you possibly . . ." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Ahiru didn't tell you, did she?"

"No." Autor's voice was firm. "I saw it when it was happening. I tried to reach out to you then, but I wasn't able to make contact. You couldn't see or hear me."

Fakir immediately glowered at the floor. "I wasn't planning to tell you about it," he said.

Autor smirked in his typical way. "I knew you wouldn't," he said. "And I hadn't intended to mention that I saw you."

Fakir looked up again. "You thought it was funny, didn't you," he said. "Seeing me like that."

Autor flinched. "No," he said, completely serious again. "I didn't think that at all." Clearly, this was an awkward conversation for them both. Neither knew quite what to make of it. It did not help in the least that they had never talked like this with each other before. "I was horrified, actually. I hadn't wanted to hurt you, Fakir."

"That's not what you said before," Fakir retorted, then cringed himself. He had not meant to say that; it had just slipped out.

Autor knew in an instant what Fakir was referring to. "I don't even know myself why I said that," he said. "You might not believe it, but when you left I sat there in confusion, wondering if it had really happened. I couldn't believe I'd actually threatened your life."

Fakir mulled over that for a moment before responding. "Strangely enough, I believe you," he said. "But that doesn't make it easy to forget."

"I wouldn't expect you to forget it," Autor said. "I don't expect forgiveness, either."

"Good, because I don't know if I've given it," Fakir said. He sighed. "I don't even know if I can."

That was not a surprise.

"To even be able to begin moving on, I have to forgive myself," Autor said after another pause. "I don't know if I can do that, either. But . . . I have to have the hope that . . ." He searched for the right words. Funny, how he could always say what he wanted except right now. It was uncomfortable to even be saying this to Fakir, yet it needed, it had, to be said.

"I have to have the hope that, if the desire is there, over time it will work in me until I can grasp it and accept it and find peace."

Fakir searched his eyes. They were sincere, though he had already known it from Autor's tone. The experience had changed him. He would likely always be at least somewhat arrogant and prideful; it was part of who he was. But he was also sobered, scarred, and filled with regret. He had a good heart. It had been buried under his power-lust and the Story itself—but only buried, not dead. And it had broken free of the rubble.

"I have the desire," Fakir said at last. "I didn't for a long time. I wanted to stay mad at you. It felt good. But then I realized it was draining me and pushing me away from Ahiru and Mytho and Charon. I think today . . . maybe I can finally let go of those feelings." As he spoke, he knew all the more that his words were true. Slowly at first but then in determination, he raised his hand.

Autor brought his to meet Fakir's. As they clasped their hands, a healing peace swept over them both. And as they looked at each other, they realized something else.

Their friendship had been scarred, but not broken. They could both emerge from the rubble and start again.

And that, they vowed in silence, but somehow each knowing that it was in the other's mind, was exactly what they were going to do.


	11. Unison

**Notes: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and also to those who preferred to read quietly! This was my first **_**Tutu**_** multi-chapter, and due to the subject matter I was a bit nervous as to how it would be received. But I haven't had any complaints, so hopefully people enjoyed the ride as much as I did. I hope to try expanding this someday. Meanwhile, however, this is a new timeline I'm starting, and Fakir is up next to have a terrible problem. It will have Fakir/Ahiru content and more concerning their friendships with Autor. I hope you'll stick with me for it!**

**Prompt: #19 – **_**Unison (Together With)**_

He was still weakened and pale, though he was getting his strength back.

The mysterious woman he had met in the darkness had been right; it had taken a lot of care to get well from the near-fatal wound he had given himself. But against the doctor's predictions he had recovered and now was back home.

It was certainly a relief; he had long ago had enough of medical personnel always barging in on him for one reason or another. He preferred the peace and quiet of the old, familiar walls and rooms where he had grown up.

Today he moved slowly down the stairs to the living room, to the piano that had lain silent during the past weeks. He sank onto the bench, his hands trembling as he ran his fingers over the keys.

For weeks he had feared this, had feared sitting at the piano and being overtaken by his madness once again. He had wondered if, knowing what he had done, he could ever write or even play music anymore. In his darkest moments, fraught with delirium and torment, he had been certain it would become his bane. Over and over he heard his crazed laughter in his mind. He saw himself playing a concerto that had bound the only people aside from his deceased immediate family who had ever really shown interest in him and cared about him. He still felt his panic and horror when he had begun to get hold of himself, fighting to stop himself and the Story without being able to do a thing—until he had committed what he had believed would be a permanent act.

His hand was still scarred from where he had stabbed it with the letter-opener. But it had otherwise healed; it would not impair him, as he had wondered if it would. He could still play music, if he so desired.

His chest was scarred as well.

Rue's and Ahiru's screams were pierced into his very soul. Rue's heartbroken eyes when she had caught his fatally wounded body . . . Ahiru's horror as she had joined the older girl, reaching for her friends and sobbing over Autor's desperate end. . . .

Fakir and Mytho had been upset too, he remembered. Mytho had not wanted harm to come to him, as he had said more than once. And Fakir . . . Fakir had felt so personally betrayed and wounded. Autor had seen it in his eyes and had heard it when Fakir had opened his mouth in anger.

He had not yet returned to school. He had dreaded it, especially wondering what sort of gossip would go around, or worse—if everyone would remember being in his Story as they were starting to remember being in Drosselmeyer's. But more than likely, he supposed, he would go back and nothing would be different at all. He would attend his classes and perhaps resume frequenting the library and then go home. No one would notice or care. He was just the eccentric music student, the "weird Autor" demanding quiet in the library.

Not that he cared what they thought of him. Anyway, he had found friends who would stand by him even after the treacheries he had committed. Most people would have abandoned him after what he had done. He would not have blamed them in the least if they had.

Strange, he had never thought he would bond platonically with anyone at all. He had avoided contact with people in general for years, preferring his books and his music as his companions. His life had changed in so many ways since meeting Fakir and Ahiru.

Without quite consciously realizing it, he had been moving his fingers over the piano keys as he had been lost in thought. He had been composing again, though not a piece that would alter reality. Now he was bringing to life a piece of music that would not change anyone, unless it would change himself to be released of the feelings he had kept inside and not known how to properly express. It was dark, it was remorseful, it was angry and haunting and filled with a pain so tangible it could be felt just in the listening of it.

And though Fakir did not understand why he had chosen to walk a path that would take him past Autor's house, or why he had to stop and listen to the heart-wrenching piece that was being played, he went closer and then to the door, listening until there was silence. For a moment he stood there, quietly taking in what he had heard. Then he raised his hand, knocking on the thick wood.

After a moment Autor arrived at the door and, upon opening it, looked in surprise at the other boy. "I wasn't expecting to see you," he said. "Did Ahiru send you again?"

"No." Fakir shrugged. "I heard you playing. You're not trying to control anyone now," he said, but it was a question despite being said as a statement.

"No, I'm not," Autor said. "It's just a regular piece of music."

"Nothing about it sounded regular," Fakir said.

"I call it _Regret,_" Autor said.

Fakir pondered over that. "Just don't drown in it," he said.

"I won't," Autor said. "I'm going to move forward. That's all I can do now, for myself and for those I've hurt with my carelessness and selfishness."

Fakir hesitated, shifting but remaining where he was. "I'm going to move forward too," he said then. "I'm not going to be consumed by the past."

"Good," Autor said. "That's something all of us need."

Again Fakir hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Autor raised an eyebrow.

"If you want to say something more, go ahead," he said. "I'm certainly not stopping you."

"I'd rather say it inside," Fakir said.

Autor held the door open further as he stepped aside. "Then come in already," he said. "There's a draft in here now."

"It's always cold in here," Fakir retorted, stepping into the stone vestibule.

Autor shut the door and led Fakir into the study. Fakir sank into the chair from which he had written the end of Drosselmeyer's Story, while Autor claimed the wooden bench. Fakir leaned forward, studying the other student with an unreadable expression.

"Those first days in the hospital, you had a high fever," he said. "You kept mumbling things and waking up delirious."

Autor frowned, pushing up his glasses. "And I'm guessing I said all kinds of nonsense," he said.

"I don't know if it was nonsense or not, but it was weird," Fakir said. "There was a lot of stuff about Drosselmeyer and something about Uzura. Then you started talking about falling down somewhere and never hitting the bottom. You wondered if you were just going to keep falling forever."

"And is that what you wanted to ask me about or not?" Autor said, not making any motion to reveal that it was more than just the ramblings of a seriously ill person. It had all happened; he knew it had.

He had met Drosselmeyer, the man he had idolized from his childhood. In the end, instead of feeling angry or outraged by the mad Story-Spinner's attitude towards him, Autor felt horror and sorrow and pity. He could have so easily followed in Drosselmeyer's footsteps and continued toying with people's fates until the part of him that valued life was utterly destroyed. He wondered now whether Drosselmeyer had truly been a genius or if he had just stumbled upon his powers as Autor had done and had gradually came to love the sense of control more and more until it dominated every other part of his personality.

Though Drosselmeyer had been an excellent writer. Autor would never feel otherwise about that. He had reread some of the man's books since returning home and had been amazed anew at the many twists and turns and the tragic characters. But all the time he had been reading, he had felt the sadness that haunted him when he thought of his meeting with Drosselmeyer.

Fakir shrugged. "I think I probably already learned those answers listening to you all that time," he said.

Autor flushed a bit. "So I talked that much," he said.

"It was a lot, yeah." Fakir straightened. "What I wanted to ask you was about the people you saw when you were falling."

Autor stiffened. "What about them?" he asked.

"Look, whatever happened to you then is your own business," Fakir said. "But I heard you say my name once in connection with those people, and I'd like to know why."

"They wanted me to tell you Hello," Autor said. "Actually, it's strange you should bring this up now. Just yesterday I went through the photographs I have of Drosselmeyer's heirs. I knew I'd seen them somewhere before, and on a whim, I looked there." He stood and crossed to the desk, opening a photograph album he had placed on top. As Fakir turned to look, Autor turned the aged pages until he found the one he wanted. "Here," he said, pointing to a picture near the end of the album.

Fakir looked, his face draining of color as he did. "Mom," he whispered. "Dad. . . ."

"My theory was correct," Autor said, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice. But he sobered as Fakir gazed at the picture.

"Why would they come to talk to you?" Fakir said, still not certain he had fully wrapped his mind around this twist. "You never met them. They never knew you."

Autor adjusted his glasses. ". . . They talked to me about sacrificing oneself to save others," he said. "They're the ones who told me I could come back."

Fakir continued staring at the photograph, seeing their smiling faces looking up at him. The picture had been taken shortly after their wedding, he guessed from how old they looked.

"Tell me about them," he said. "Were they happy?"

"Yes, I think so," Autor said. "Happy to be together. But they miss you."

Fakir nodded. _I miss them too._

". . . They also said they're proud of you," Autor remembered.

At this, Fakir smiled a bit. He gazed at the picture for another moment before leaning back and looking to the researcher.

"Were you ever planning to tell me this if I hadn't asked?" he said, his voice flat.

"Of course I would have," Autor said. "To test my hypothesis."

"Of course," Fakir nodded, crossing his arms. After a moment he said, "But that wouldn't have been the only reason."

Autor sat down again. "No," he said. "It wouldn't."

They lapsed into an easy silence, the only sound the clock ticking on the shelf.

_"So you've created a happy ending for yourselves after all,"_ Drosselmeyer observed. _"How is it that you always seem to be able to turn a tragedy completely around? None of my other Story characters ever did such things. And oh, where is that dratted Uzura?"_ He frowned, looking around at the always-moving gears. _"If she's in Kinkan, she should have turned up weeks ago."_

He leaned back, rocking in his chair. _"Anyway, don't think your problems are over,"_ he said. _"With sentient Stories roaming about, anything could happen. I wonder if your Story has anything in mind for you, Fakir?"_

And he smirked in the darkness.


End file.
